Chapter 19 The chatter amongst the other guests was a little excited, and I guessed that they had been informed of the imminent arrival of our rather exotic companion; Trent Berkeley and Donald Harstock were deep in conversation about the mysterious and dark regions of the world, their peoples and customs and the places that they had visited over the years; Herman Mayling hopped from one foot to the other with obvious anticipation and I noticed he was fingering a rather expensive looking gold chain- perhaps a gift for the honoured guest; Alain Barlow was whispering something to Damon Cavett that he clearly found highly amusing. Not one of them paid any heed to the closeness with which Luci held on to me, which I found a little strange, but for which I was also very grateful. A confrontation with this company might well result in the danger that I so feared. We moved to the centre of the room, Luci still clinging to me tightly, and she announced, “Our Guest has arrived.” I felt sure that Damon Cavett would notice us now, and that I would be turfed out on my ear with a stiff beating at the very least, but he just looked at us and smiled. I wondered at Luci’s comment during one of our previous meetings as to how Damon knew of her appetites and whether perhaps this was what she had meant. Nevertheless, it was a little unsettling, and yet I made no attempt to detach myself, I was too far gone for good sense to prevail. Silence fell on the gathered party, and every face turned to the door; there was a brief pause, and then the newcomer entered the room. He was, to say the least, an impressive sight; not very tall, dark skinned and slight of build, he more than made up for his lack of physical stature with an incredible array of brightly coloured silks that were wrapped and tied around his frame. Blues, greens, purples and reds of every hue imaginable curled and twisted around his torso, shining under the soft light and making my eyes ache with trying to decipher the patterns that formed and reformed as he moved. His loose trousers were every bit as bright, every inch as colourful, with a wide yellow sash at the waist that trailed down his left side to the knee, and cuffs that cinched at his bare ankles. On his feet were simple slippers of supple red leather stitched together with golden thread that echoed the vibrancy of the sash at his waist. In keeping with Laffs’ description of the clowns, his long hair was twisted in a single braid and his face was marked with intricate tattoos that coiled around luminous jade eyes, eyes that were at once clear and fresh and yet boundlessly ancient. Luci let me loose and went to greet the man, and I took the opportunity to slip into the background. She and our new guest became the centre of attention and that suited me just fine. I watched as she greeted him with a kiss to both cheeks and then they hugged warmly. Taking his arm much as she had mine, she turned to face the little knot of people surrounding her. “Gentlemen, this is Razeem Al’shai, high priest of M’entet and true friend of the Cavett family for more years than he probably cares to remember, please make him welcome.” With that, she set about introducing him to each of the guests, briefly outlining points of interest, and he would make reference to those with polite questions as he shook their hands. He would smile, showing perfectly white filmstar teeth, as he won them over instantly and with the ease of a practiced politician. She introduced each in turn, and then he hugged Damon with friendly affection, leaving me to the last. “Razeem,” she said softly, looking into me with those beautiful green eyes, “I would like you to meet someone very special. This is Elliot Wallis, the writer mentioned to you.” “Ah, yes,” he said with interest and extended his hand, “I have been most anxious to meet you.” “Really?” I replied, somewhat surprised, “I’m actually more of a journalist than a writer, so Luci may have exaggerated my talent a little.” As our hands clasped, his smile slipped a little and a hint of a frown creased his brow. I smiled back warmly enough, certain that my concerns over the presence of clowns were hidden, and I wondered at his change of demeanour. Oddly, his face seemed familiar and I tried to recall if perhaps he had been present in any of the photographs that I had seen. When he spoke again, it was with a touch of trepidation. “I have a feeling that young Luci may have understated your talents, Mr. Wallis,” he said. “Oh, I’m just a hack really,” I said, “I write interest stories for a popular newspaper, and…” “That’s what you do, Mr. Wallis, not what you are. Your talents do not exist solely for your job,” he stated calmly, “I believe you and I will have much to discuss.” He released my hand and his smile returned to its former radiance, but those contradictorily youthfully- bright- incredibly- ancient eyes remained fixed upon me. Luci moved to take my arm once more, relieving some of the tension I felt under his gaze. “I told you he was special, didn’t I Razeem?” she said with a smile, and he nodded slowly in reply. I realised the other guests were now staring at me with anticipation, as if waiting for me to somehow confirm my newly acquired status. I laughed nervously and stumbled out a few words to divert attention from me. “Shall we eat?” asked Luci, pulling me toward the dining room, the rest of the group following in our wake. Alain Barlow pushed Damon Cavett through in his wheelchair and set him at the head of the table. It was big enough to seat sixteen, so the eight of us had plenty of room. Each place was set for a five course meal, beautifully arranged with solid silver cutlery and crystal wine glasses, and each had a name tag; the centrepiece was a wonderful arrangement of colourful blooms trimmed to the perfect height to remain impressive without obstructing conversation; red wine had been left to breathe at intervals along the table and within easy reach of all the diners and within minutes we all had full glasses and the conversation was surprisingly light. I began to feel a little more comfortable now that we were distracted by the meal ahead. I found myself seated between Trent Berkeley to my left and Luci at the bottom end of the table on my right; directly opposite me was the enigmatic Razeem Al’Shai who was deep in conversation with Donald Harstock. He appeared to be questioning the foreigner in depth about his travels, and Razeem was offering polite insights into his experiences. Trent opened with some small talk about family life, and I found myself responding with mundane detail about my wife and home. As the first course arrived (a rather delicate soup made from exotic vegetables with a spiced tomato base), we fell into an easy ramble through his adventures and some probing questions into the background behind his book. Further up the table, Damon Cavett, the doctor and Mayling were discussing jewellery design and precious metals. I realised that the seating arrangement had been carefully planned to provoke exactly this kind of companionable ease, and my admiration for Luci’s obvious ability to read people rose to new heights. She offered fitting interjections, flitting from one conversation to the next and back without missing a beat, the mark of the practiced hostess, but now and again I would look over to her to find her smiling serenely at me as if I were the centre of everything. As the meal passed through its main courses and into dessert, the general chatter gradually combined, and focus fell upon the late comer. Most of the questioning was deflected with non- specific or unfathomable answers, but what was divulged was all the more intriguing for that. I learned that he came from a little island called K’het, visited by few and only then by invitation. He described the location as beyond all else, and would not be drawn on the subject. He was apparently somewhat of a celebrity among his people, the priests of M’entet being afforded the greatest of honour and him being the High priest meant that he was held in god- like reverence. Being one of the few that had been invited to the island, Cavett’s ancestor had grown to know and love the people and their culture, and had ultimately brought some of what he had learned back with him. Trade between the Cavetts and the island folk had begun, and as I listened to the tale, I started to wonder if the late night dealings with these people were far more innocent that first appearances allowed; if that was so, then might not Broddick’s tale of murderous betrayal also be true? My confidence and sense of ease grew in equal proportion until, as coffee was served, I summoned the courage to ask the burning question. “Razeem, can you tell us about M’entet? What is it, and what does it mean to be High Priest?” He had raised his coffee cup to his lips, but he settled it back on the saucer without drinking. “Well done, Elliot,” he said evenly, “you have had the courage to ask the right question. I begin to think young Luci is right about you.” With that, he took her hand and squeezed it, and she smiled back at him brightly. “Right about me how?” I asked. “You have spirit Elliot!” he replied, to which the others laughed softly. “Let’s retire to the lounge and commence the evening’s entertainment,” said Luci, rising from her seat. The others followed, the doctor taking charge of Damon’s chair once more, and I was left standing under the steady scrutiny of Razeem’s jade eyes. He bowed his head to me, turned and followed the others through, his soft slippers whispering on the plush carpet, and I trailed behind, a little bewildered and confused. The lounge was a spacious room, tastefully furnished with comfortable looking sofas which had been moved to the sides of the room for this evening’s “entertainment”. In the centre of the room there stood a round table big enough to seat all eight of us, surrounded by seven chairs with a space for Damon’s wheelchair. The others were taking their places in what looked to be an orderly and well- practiced fashion, and as I entered Luci steered me toward one of the vacant seats, taking the other for herself. I was seated directly opposite Razeem, between Mayling and the doctor. Berkeley and Harstock were at quarters to me, and the Cavetts were either side of Razeem. Once we were all seated, Luci said “Lights,” and an unseen figure flicked the switch and exited quietly, leaving the room dimly lit by a half dozen candles. “Gentlemen,” began Razeem, “Mr. Mayling and I have already spoken, and I am aware of the one he wishes to reach. Before we begin, does anyone else have a departed soul that they would like to contact?” I stifled a grin; a séance? I could hardly believe it. I looked over at Luci. She was enraptured by Razeem’s words, totally and utterly captivated. It was incredible to me that a woman of such apparent worldliness could be so gullible, but then, I had heard such stories about the wealthier classes before. It seemed that none of them were immune to the charms of a “psychic” conman, and perhaps, given Damon’s unique affliction, the Cavetts were more susceptible than most. I swept a glance around my companions; Mayling had laid the gold chain on the table, whilst the doctor sat, stern and unmoving beside me; Harstock had pulled our a picture of what appeared to be his mother, Berkeley had a pocket watch old enough to be his father’s and Damon was clutching a dusty and faded pink ribbon in one wizened hand. I thought better of asking who it belonged to and decided to play along and to see it through before approaching the Cavetts with questions. Razeem gestured for the guests to lay their charms on the table as Mayling had, and then to place our palms flat with our fingers touching to close the circle. The candles flickered with an unfelt breeze as we did so and an unearthly hush fell across the group. Razeem and the others closed their eyes, all except Luci; she was watching me again, that half smile playing on her lips as she nodded encouragement for me to follow suit. I took a deep breath and did as she instructed. A minute or two of silent darkness followed, then Razeem began to chant softly in a foreign tongue; there was something oddly familiar about the words, and I tried to coax the memory from the back of my mind. There were a number of times where I felt that the answer was within reach, but no matter how hard I tried, it eluded my grasp, slipping back into the mire of my past. Frustration threatened to anger me, but as the chanting grew softer, it soothed my thoughts, smoothed away my anxieties and relaxed my grip on consciousness until, released temporarily from the stress of the past few days, I could no longer hold sleep at bay. I floated away, rudderless and at the mercy of unseen currents, on the velvet darkness behind my eyes. Night Terrors (2) I had screamed for hours before sleep finally took me, or maybe it was minutes, seconds, weeks, months, years, I couldn’t really say, but I awoke to the sound of early morning birdsong and the warmth of fresh clean sunlight pouring in through the high arched window above my head. They had strapped me to the bed with hard leather restraints that bit into the skin of my wrists and ankles, adding a fresh line of welts to flesh that was already puffed and bruised. He was there, wrapped in a stately aura of calmness and perched on a chair at the corner by the door like a vulture waiting on the Reaper’s signal to begin dining. “Last night was… interesting, Elliot,” he said with an air of disdain, “I expected more of you by now.” “Why are you doing this? Why am I here?” I pleaded past my thirst- swollen tongue. He sighed and shook his head, scribbling and scratching across the loose sheets in the folder opened at his lap. “Back in the loop, I see. We take a leap forwards, we reach the very edge, and then… well. We must start again I suppose.” He tapped the pen on his teeth as he surveyed me, dead eyes scouring me for clues to whatever it was he sought; the click- click- click jarred my nerves and I twitched uncomfortably against the restraints. “Perhaps we have been going about this all wrong,” he mused, “Perhaps sleep releases you from them, allows you the time to evade them. Is that it, Elliot, do you not see them in your dreams?” The others; the memory of them curdled like sour milk in my mind, and I kept quiet, not wanting to lend them substance by speaking of them. Click- click- click… “That’s it, isn’t it?” he muttered to himself, a glimmer of a smile creasing his face, “I’ve been a fool. I thought that you’d be more susceptible to them whilst unconscious when, in fact, it affords you a retreat. I wonder…” Click- click- click… He stood and swept toward my bed, still click- click- clicking the pen as he surveyed me from head to toe; sweat beaded on my skin as he drew closer, and I feared I was to be pushed into the presence of the others once more. I pleaded silently as my breath escaped my lips, expecting no mercy and yet hoping beyond hope for a miracle. His eyed fixed on mine, a shark spying his next meal, and his grin broadened. “Awake, you’re untouchable,” he said, “asleep, you escape and hide. But, at that point just between waking and sleeping, you’re open to them. That’s where we need to keep you, and that is where they will find you. That’s where they’ll come through.” My spine froze, paralysed with fear as I realised exactly what he proposed, the validity of it, and a certainty of my own doom settled into my thoughts. “How to do it, though… without the morphine, the pain will be excruciating; it will be like fire in your blood, but…” his thoughts seemed to drift, a moment of doubt perhaps, a twinge of guilt, and then a wild look of greed and avarice took his features. “Well, a little pain to take us where we need to go, and it will be worth it after all, don’t you think?” He laughed coldly at my pleading, my head bobbing from side to side, tears and sweat mingling on my skin in icy mockery of the fire to come, and I screamed at him, “Why are you DOING this?” “Why?” he said with a tip of his head, “Because I can. Because you can. Because I made you what you are. Because I know what you can become.” He turned and walked to the door; reaching the threshold, he stopped and said, “Because I know what you will help me to become. Parsons, serum only today. No morphine from now on. And no sleep.” He exited, taking the last of my hope with him and leaving Parsons to cover my head and pump my veins full of fire. My mind was as hollow as my cries of pain.