--- A "lost" civilization still thrives ---
It was a dead end case. Mulroy had dissected every piece of evidence recovered as thoroughly as possible. He knew everything there was to know about the murder of Gordon Cromwell except who did it and why.
As strange as it might seem it wasn’t unusual to find bodies around Stonehenge. Of course it’s a tourist attraction and so despite the fact that it’s rather secluded there is always heavy traffic in the area, even during the snowy wintry months. However, some people will go through great lengths in an attempt to get away with murder.
The British people are pretty proud of their Neolithic monuments. There are many of them throughout the British Isles, but none more famous then Stonehenge. Ask any Brit and he’ll be able to rattle off many theories about it’s origin and use in ancient times. All these stories end with tales of the Druids; that mysterious cloaked clan that wandered Gaul before settling in Britain. They worshiped the Earth. Their symbols were oak and mistletoe. They built Stonehenge and other giant cairns. They opposed the coming of Christianity. And they practiced ritual sacrifice.
How many times had Mulroy been called out to Wiltshire County to investigate a corpse shot in the chest by some idiot who after getting over the shock of what he’d done, carved a pentagram in the victims forehead and drove the unfortunate in the dead of night out to Stonehenge for depositing. Just another ritual sacrifice by the Druids. Wasn’t that obvious by the Satanic symbol carved in the forehead? So what if whoever did it mistakenly made a Jewish star. Or the fact that Druids didn’t worship the devil. The big problem was that those robed bastards had been extinct for nearly fifteen hundred years.
And so these crimes fell under Mulroy’s jurisdiction and it never took too long before a failed romance, a bad business deal, or something involving illegal drugs turned up and those poor put upon Druids were exonerated of yet another vicious murder rap.
But, Gordon Cromwell, he might as well have been killed by Druids. He’d been stabbed three times; heart, liver, left kidney. Was it coincidence that these wounds were so perfectly placed in the exact center of these particular organs? Not to mention that the poor lad’s stones had been chopped off and discovered in his mouth. This led Mulroy toward a gangland slaying, but he wasn’t convinced in that direction. Cromwell was a local boy, lived near by and worked at a resort spa in Bath. There was no motive. Mulroy had done some serious digging and either Gordon had no association whatsoever with organized crime, including narcotics, or he’d hidden his track with the meticulousness of Benjamin Bathurst. A mugging, you ask? He had plenty of valuables left on his body including a wallet loaded with over two hundred pounds. A jealous lover was more like it, but Cromwell hadn’t even dated in over a year. He was a gawky awkward boy that women didn’t readily take to. Perhaps it was simply some wacko who was passing through and Gordon Cromwell was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.
The only thing that didn’t fit was the bottle of pills. They were unlabelled and the boys in the lab had no idea what they might be. Mulroy had received a list of nearly fifty herbs and berry extracts, none of them narcotic and all of them local to Wiltshire. No one could discover conclusively what effects these pills might have on a human. The overall theory was that they were merely some sort of vitamin supplement, possibly homemade.
Over the last few weeks Mulroy had taken to stopping at the Sheepender in the evenings after work to down a few pints of Guinness. It was strange since he didn’t drink normally. He knew it had something to do with being stuck on this case. Mulroy hunched over his mug, eyes glued to Cromwell’s pill bottle which he’d filched from the evidence drawer last Thursday and had been carrying around like a talisman since. He took another swig, wiped the foam away and made up his mind. In one quick motion he unscrewed the cap, shook a pill onto his palm and popped it in his gob.
A burnt woody taste accosted his senses so thick he could smell it and feel it on his fingers. His eyes shut involuntarily as he choked it down and when he opened them he was no longer Mulroy.
Raag almost flipped his chair over he stood up so fast. What the hell was he doing here? This was a bad place. It was off limits for his kind. He scanned the patrons quickly. Yep, two Black Robes had noticed him and were sliding out from their booth. Raag made a break for it. He was out the door before they could stop him. There were others in that place who were dressed strangely. On any other occasion Raag would have gawked at them, but there was no time for that if he wanted to survive the night. Curiously, they didn’t even seem to notice the commotion he’d made.
How could this have happened? Raag was still a young man. He’d been good all his life. He followed the laws and edicts sent down and enforced by the Robed Ones. Yet there was no mistaking the burning taste in his mouth. He’d been given the death elixir. He didn’t know how it had happened, but wasn’t that the point? The mysterious ones were magical. They did as they pleased and the likes of Raag were not meant to understand.
He needed to hide. That was the most important thing. The windows of the shops he passed reflected the glowing green light that his skin now emitted. It was the effects of the drug and enhanced by the moonlight. In the daytime it would not show up and by tomorrow night the drug will have worn off. Raag dredged his mind as he ran through the town cowering from any he passed. There were more of those peculiarly dressed folks who ignored him like those others. However, there were also Robed Ones out and about and when they saw him, they pointed and made the forked devil sign at him. A few gave chase.
What had Sharna taught in the schoolhouse when he was a boy about the death elixir? When you were chosen for sacrifice the Robed Ones gave it to you. Raag had always laughed at this. Why not just refuse to swallow it? Guess he had his answer now. He’d been coming home from tilling the field with his hoe over his shoulder when his number must have been called. And then: Poof! He was in one of the evil places and the elixir had already been consumed. The poison caused your skin to glow green and this was a beacon for the Black Cloaks. They would hunt him for ritual sacrifice at the stone circle until the sun came up. If he lived until then, he would be safe. What were the odds Sharna had given? Raag had never been good at remembering numbers. 18% survival rate? Or was it 12%?
Raag turned down an alley and almost ran headfirst into two Black Cloaks who were engaged in conversation. They took in the situation immediately. One pulled a long curved dagger from the folds of his robe while the other retreated a few steps and began chanting in a language Raag had heard about and prayed he’d never hear. What Raag would have given to have his hoe still lying on his shoulder, clumps of dirt clinging to it’s slightly rusted but very sharp edge.
It was Brunka’s lessons that came to him at that moment. When attacked with an edged weapon and you can’t get out of striking range, get as close as you can to thwart the momentum of any blow. Raag charged his foe. The robed man was surprised. He quickly recovered by raising his blade up to thrust just as Raag bounded into his chest. Raag put his shoulder into it and pushed forward like he did to the oxen when it got lazy in the fields. The Black Cloak lifted off the ground and went flying, landing on his back, the dagger skidding off near his friend. The other fellow didn’t bother with the knife. His chanting had reached a fever pitch. He held a hand out and hit Raag with a piercing gaze that stopped him in his tracks. Then the Robed One noticed something that made his words dry up. Raag clearly saw the look of shock in the man’s eyes. That was all Raag needed. He turned and fled down the road just as two others entered the alley, puffing and out of breath.
Raag was ok for the moment. The chanter would need to start from the beginning if he wanted to cast another spell. The other two were too winded to keep up the chase.
Raag made the other end of the alley. It emptied off onto a main street.
He kept moving all night, never stopping for more then a few minutes at a time. Even when he became exhausted and could think of nothing but sleep he forced himself onward. The Robed Ones had spells they could use to track him. Sharna had taught him all manner of tricks to help deflect the effects of these spells and he even tried a few that he remembered. Raag had no idea if they worked or not. Perhaps they did since he wasn’t dead on the altar. Or maybe they had nothing to do with it. Maybe it was pure luck. Whatever the case, they obviously hadn’t worked for Sharna. She had taken the death elixir when Raag was fourteen. No one knew what the Black Cloaks did with the bodies, but neither Sharna nor any of the others were ever seen again.
He was shambling along so slowly he could hardly call what he was doing walking. The sun was rising. Had he made it? He was in a field somewhere near a wide road that huge noisy beasts trod upon. He kept his distance.
Finally, he stopped and sat down. Within minutes Raag was asleep.
When he awoke the sun was high. He could feel the sunburn on his face and forearms. He stood. Suddenly there was a feeling of vertigo and then he was falling… Falling… Falling… Raag’s last thought was that the death elixir must be wearing off.
Mulroy sat at his kitchen table. An hallucinogen. That pill must have been an hallucinogen. “My god”, thought Mulroy, “It had been pretty powerful stuff.” Mulroy could still recall every last detail about the crazy dream he’d had. He had been another person. A person whose life had been as real as his own. If he thought hard enough he was sure he could recall Raag’s sixth birthday, when he lost his virginity, the wonderful taste of his mothers meat pie. Mulroy was a vegetarian, beef made him violently ill, yet somewhere inside himself there was a complete person who’d lived a full life named Raag who loved meat pie.
Of course everything about that crazy dream could be put down to thoughts about the Gordon Cromwell case and killer Druids. It was pretty funny now that he was awake. The bottle of pills was on the table beside his coffee cup. It would be returned to evidence when he went to the office.
He stood and swiped the pills off the table, shoving them in a front pocket and then suddenly there was a feeling of vertigo and then he was falling… Falling… Falling… Mulroy’s last thought was that the elixir must be wearing off.
Alaric sat up in his bed. He was naked. There was a beautiful new black robe laid out for him with a note. He put the cloak on and followed the instructions in the letter by going to the temple.
Synochrist was waiting for him. The old man sat on a stiff stone bench, hands spread wide so he could feel the comfort of the rock. His cowl was down and his wizened features looked serene to Alaric.
“You have done well, my child”, spoke the old man.
“Thank you”, Alaric had learned to take praise gracefully.
Synochrist pointed to the table. There was a serpentine dagger and death elixir.
“Now you are one of us”, intoned Synochrist, “You shall perform the sacrifice tonight. Give the death elixir to the townsperson of your choosing. I believe your vision should have told you who it will be.”
“Yes”, answered Alaric, “A man named Mulroy who will think he is a boy named Raag when he takes the elixir. I will find him.”
It seemed that was all and that Alaric was dismissed. He took the tools from the table, turned and trod from the tiny garden that was Synochrist’s temple. Just as he reached the edge he heard the old man speak.
“What did you think of your experience in the world of the unbelievers?”
Alaric thought a moment. All neophytes took the drug which allowed them to return to the land that the Druids had left so long ago. It was the last of the many tests which led to initiation in the order. Alaric had studied the long history of his peoples both before the persecution and after the departure for many years. Still, it was hard to believe that this place really existed.
“I’m very happy that we are no longer totally a part of that world. Who would want to be a member of a society that does not understand the divinity of the Earth?”
“You have learned well, my child.”
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I knew from the first paragraph this was going to be an ambitious effort and almost certainly a really good read, and I was right on both counts. You have a real fair for the fantasy genre, and pairing it with a murder mystery is a huge undertaking. Layered and rich.
ReplyDeleteYour introductory comments make me wonder if you're losing confidence with each challenge, but the funny thing is, you're improving each time. Don't beat yourself up - when this is over and you've stepped back a little, you're going to see how great you are at the short story.
Number six on the way.