Timothy pointed again. “Look! I see Merlin on the other side. And there is King Arthur. I also see a third man, but I do not recognize him.”
“Father,” Jasmine said, sliding an arm around his elbow, “you need to rest. Come with me.”
Timothy pulled away and tromped right into the flowers, reaching for the aura.
“Father!” Jasmine called.
Timothy touched the crimson surface, raising a splash of sparks. The radiant energy crawled along his hand, then up his arm, and covered his skin with vibrating red embers. When the energy reached his eyes, a dazzling flare of scarlet enveloped everything in his field of vision.
Jasmine screamed. “Father! Do not leave me!” Her voice sounded distant and warped.
Timothy felt himself being drawn into the aura, swallowed whole, as if becoming part of its pulsing red field. The town disappeared in a foggy sea of scarlet, leaving only the two idols intact as they seemed to join him in the sparkling radiance. Distorted words drifted past his ears, like a woman’s desperate cry blown about by the wind.
“Father!” the voice called. “I love you!”
Merlin strode to the portal and set his hand on top. Pushing down, he squeezed the aura into the rubellite on the ground below. As it compressed, a stream of energy popped out. It spun around Merlin and Valcor three times, then shot into the sky like a frazzled lightning bolt. Two balls of energy followed and launched over the trees in a high arc.
“What were those?” Valcor asked.
Merlin laid his hand on top of his head. “I have no idea!”
“Is it a sign? Part of the prophecy?”
“I will seek wisdom on this mystery, but for now” Merlin picked up the gem “I want you to take this rubellite. Keep it safe. When I have set the plan of redemption in order, I will make sure the way to use this gem is added to the king’s chronicles.” He laid the stone in Valcor’s palm. “I will call it the Great Key, for through it the dragons will be able to leave their prison and find a true resting place.”
Valcor drew it closer to his eyes. “Master Merlin! The rubellite is no longer pulsing.”
Merlin rocked the gem with his finger. “Makaidos! His spirit has either died, or. .” He gazed at a vapor trail vanishing in the sky. “He has escaped.”
“My father? Escaped?” Valcor lifted his head upward. “What will happen to him? Where will he go?”
“I’m not sure. He died before the transformation, so he has no body in which to reside. Unless he finds a way to reanimate his dragon carcass, he will be a wandering spirit.”
Valcor held the gem in his fingertips. “Shall I tell Clefspeare and Hartanna about this? After all, Makaidos was Hartanna’s father and Clefspeare’s grandfather.”
“Yes,” Merlin said, “but guard what you say. Tell Hartanna that the rubellite once belonged to her father, that it reflects the vitality of a dragon’s mortal essence, but keep the rest to yourself. Since we don’t know what really happened to Makaidos, speculation about his fate would be foolhardy.”
Valcor peered into the gem. “What about the village we saw inside? And what about the other dragons? Should I tell Hartanna about that?”
Merlin shook his head. “Until the dragon messiah comes to set the dragons free, the gateway to Dragons’ Rest must remain a secret from everyone else.”
“To keep the dragons safe from Morgan?”
“Morgan cannot harm those already dead. What’s important is that the dragon messiah finds his way to Dragons’ Rest, and, according to the word God gave me in a dream, he must do so only through a special messenger whom God will prepare at the proper time.”
Valcor closed his hand around the rubellite and gazed at the moon, now hazy behind a veil of thin clouds. “May God bring that messenger soon!”
“Perhaps you will have a hand in his coming.” Merlin patted Valcor on the back. “Walk with me to the place where you will hide until I summon you again to Blood Hollow. You and Sir Gawain must organize the king’s knights. I am certain now that a rebellion will soon arise, and I will need Arthur’s loyal soldiers to help me put it down.”
Stooping low, Elam smoothed the dirt on top of the grave, picking out each pebble and fleck of debris. As the headstone’s speckled crystals shimmered in the rising sun, he admired the block letters and rugged cross he had carved with his own hand. “Lazarus VII, descendant of Lazarus of Bethany. Rest in Peace.” Following the outline of the etched cross with his finger, he whispered, “Thank you for teaching me. I know we’ll be together again someday.”
He stood and clapped the dirt off his hands as he counted the graves in the family plot the original Lazarus with his tombstone that read, “Lazarus of Bethany, in Heaven to Stay”; Lazarus’s wife, passed away two years earlier; Joseph, father of Lazarus VII; an unnamed girl who died at birth; and a boy named Elam.
The last grave carried no body. Elam had carved the cryptic marker, “Elam the Wanderer,” to answer neighbors’ questions. Whatever happened to that wandering waif who showed up over three years ago? Now they would know. He had moved on to another life.
Elam slung a knapsack over his shoulder and looked behind him at the towering hill, the tor of Glastonbury and the tiny church at its apex. Yes, it was time to leave for good, and best to do so without answering all the well-intentioned questions of the villagers. Firming his chin, he marched around the bordering swamp and followed a damp, muddy trail that led into a forest. Camelot lay ahead, a new home atop a new hill, and this one promised adventures unlike any he had ever known.
As he passed under a lush canopy, he reached into his knapsack and withdrew the Ovulum. The egg was dark today, but that wasn’t unusual. It seemed to warm up and glow only when it had a mind to talk, and that wasn’t very often, maybe a half dozen times over the last three years, and most of those had come when Lazarus was holding it.
Elam rubbed his thumb over the glassy surface. Still, it had spoken directly to him once since that wondrous song during the rainy dance, and he would always remember its short, but passionate plea.
A lad of faith will never fail
Beholding truth and light.
So keep me close and never doubt,
And I will be your sight.
In the dimness of the dense forest, the Ovulum glowed ever so slightly. Elam halted and looked around. There had to be a reason for its illumination, but everything seemed in order. Nothing but trees and undergrowth lined his narrow path. No sounds arose in the woods except a soft rustling from a light breeze announcing the wakening day.
The rustling grew louder. The wind kicked up dirt and leaves and spun them in a tornadic dance. Trees waved back and forth and littered the ground with twigs and moss. Dark clouds rode the wind, drawing a blanket across the sky and sending acorn-sized raindrops in sporadic intervals, sometimes just two or three, then a cascade that quickly dampened the path.
Elam reached back to store the Ovulum, but a lightning flash made him cover his head. The bolt sizzled into a tree, splashing embers in high arcs. One of the streams collected in an elongating arm that reached toward him. It orbited his body once and plunged into the Ovulum, igniting a burst of scarlet within.
Elam clung to the pulsing egg, his fingers clenched around it, his muscles contracting uncontrollably with every colorful, rhythmic throb. His whole body shook. His teeth chattered so hard, his jaws ached. Finally, his fingers relaxed, and the Ovulum fell to the ground, still pulsing.
With large raindrops splashing on his head, he dropped to his knees and touched the Ovulum. Although it still pulsed red, its surface was cool. “What. .” He swallowed painfully. “What happened?”
The red glow slowly faded away. He scooped the egg and wiped it clean with a dry corner of his tunic, then broke into a quick march, keeping his head low as he continued his journey toward Camelot. According to Lazarus, there was only one man who could solve the mysteries of the Ovulum, and he served the king within the walls of the castle.