“You are going to take my ex-wife,” the lawyer said, “and my reaction is— good riddance. But you are also taking my children, and that I object to very much. Why?” Jerry looked at Ariadne, saw terror in her eyes before turning back to her ex-husband. “Because, regardless of what any real-world court says, I will not separate a mother and her children.”
“But you do not know her history?”
“I care not. She is their mother.” Killer, he could now see, was unfocused and shivering. Either the pain was throwing him into shock, or he had internal injuries. Jerry was on his own.
Gillis bared his teeth. “Unfortunately. She is also an incurable alcoholic. I have shelled out thousands for cures for her, and they never last. I tried removing the liquor— she bought more and hid it. I took away her money— she sold her jewelry, including heirlooms from my mother. My ranch is a long way from town; I disabled her car— but nothing works.” The idea of alcoholism being curable like a disease was new to Jerry— but medicine must certainly have progressed since the forties.
Gillis continued his address to the jury. “Not only did the courts award me custody, Mr. Howard, but they have restricted her visiting privileges. She can only see Alan and Lacey when I am satisfied that she is sober. She terrifies them otherwise, falling around and slobbering over them— ”
“I am not interested,” Jerry said, not daring to look at Ariadne. “Why certain people are chosen for rescue and the great multitude is not I do not know. Only the Oracle knows and it does not say. I myself was perhaps the easiest rescue…”
“We are talking about my former wife!” Gillis snapped. “And about my children. I tell you— it is impossible to keep her dried out for more than a month or two. She will steal, lie, do anything. She disappears on binges for days, even weeks. She was recovered like trash from the gutter on several occasions, not knowing where she had been or what she might have done. You are returning these children to her care?” The stuffy little cabin was silent, except for a faint crackle from the wood stove. Jerry now glanced at Ariadne and then turned away quickly. He looked at the second wife and saw a frown of disapproval.
“Mrs. Gillis,” he said, “does not your religion talk of mercy?”
She bristled— and in a soft, round, gentle girl, it seemed ridiculous. “To those who confess and truly repent, mercy is granted,” she said primly.
“Then perhaps Mera is one form of mercy?” Jerry said softly. “Many who are rescued are saved from imminent death— I have seen bodies brought in, scarcely more than corpses, barely breathing. Within two or three days they are as healthy as I am. Cancer, typhoid, turberculosis… what else, Killer? Bubonic plague, sword cuts— nobody dies in Mera, nobody is sick. I don’t think alcoholism will be much of a problem there.” Gervasse would have drunk half the Amontillado, but no one could call Gervasse an alcoholic; his mind was needle sharp, his health flawless, and his personality irresistible. There was nothing wrong with Gervasse.
Again there was silence in the shimmering light of the oil lamps, except for muffled sobbing from Ariadne’s direction.
“She is not worthy!” Gillis shouted.
“Who are you to say?” Jerry roared back at him and angrily took hold of his temper. He should be a proper professional and not became emotionally involved with his client, Ariadne. “Have you any further charges to lay?” The big man folded his arms, his face red now, his bruised lips tight shut. “Is that not enough?”
“No!” Jerry said. “If that is all you have against her, then I say that she is more worthy than I was!” A very long silence ensued.
He hadn’t intended to say that.
At last he turned and looked at Ariadne. The hope was back. “I also have sinned,” he said. “I was not sent to be judge, or prosecutor, or defense counsel. I shall take you to Mera as I was instructed and deliver you to the Oracle, and there you will make your decision.” She nodded without speaking, pale cheeks shining.
He turned back to Gillis. “I may be making a mistake; I was not specifically told to bring the children. If I am wrong, then they will be returned safely. I am certain of that. Many do not choose to remain after they have spoken to the Oracle. It always promises that they can return, and we have never caught it out in a lie or an error.”
“Returned to me?” Gillis asked. “Or sent back with her?”
“I don’t know.” The light bulb was barely a pink glow now.
It was very still outside, silent. What would come next?
“Mr. Howard, sir?” The voice came from Carlo, and Jerry turned to him in some astonishment until he saw that the “sir” was not intended to convey respect.
“Mr. Carlo, sir?”
“You don’t get older in Mera?”
Jerry shook his head, moving the kid up about six notches on the scale. He could tell what was coming next, and Gillis had missed it.
“How about children, then? Do they get older? Or stay children?” He had a soft voice with a beat to it that Jerry could not place.
“I don’t know,” Jerry said. “Killer, you’re an old-timer— do you know?” He was asking because he was worried about Killer, not because he expected an answer— he had already had Killer’s answer earlier that evening.
“No,” Killer grunted.
“There are no children in Mera?” Carlo asked, eyes gleaming with triumph. “I have never seen any,” Jerry said.
He could not force himself to look towards Ariadne.
Lacey drifted off to sleep in her father’s arms. He must have been extremely uncomfortable, but he did not suggest laying her down. Carlo and Maisie fidgeted and squirmed. She turned very pink and said she needed the ladies’ room. Jerry sent her off to a pot in a bedroom and made Ariadne stand guard over her.
Killer insisted he was fine, but did not speak unless questioned.
Endless night— surely they must be at the north pole and this was still only December?
No sounds or signs outside. What was going on? Why didn’t the enemy try something more? What— who?— no, what— were they waiting for? Had the message been passed in Hell?
We have Achilles son of Crion in our realm, he is injured, and his only companion is incompetent. Come and get him… Lord Asterios.
No, he must not even think that name.
The cabin was stuffy and hot, but Jerry could no longer resist the thought of coffee. He took the pot over to the water bucket, and nothing scratched or miaowed at the window, but as he came back he thought he heard a chuckle outside, too quiet for the others to hear.
He threw another log in the wood stove and put the pot on top.
Then Carlo straightened. Then Maisie. Then he heard it also, faint sound in the distance. Now they were all staring at the window, all hearing it.
“What’s that?” Maisie demanded nervously.
“You tell me what you think!” he replied, his scalp crawling with the rising tension.
“Sirens!” Carlo snapped, his eyes narrowing. “No— it’s a mob!” Gillis said, stirring uneasily. Jerry said, “Just remember it’s a trick. I hear hounds.”
The distant noise carried him back to his childhood, his grandfather’s farm, and standing on a stile with the old man holding him, looking out at the misty morning hills of Dorset. And the hunt poured over a distant skyline, the men in their red coats, the horses, a faint horn call… and the white foam of the dogs in front, streaming down the hill and giving throat. He could hear that baying now. Damn them, digging around in his mind!
No, these were bigger than foxhounds— wolfhounds or mastiffs, killers. They were coming closer.