SYLVANS
By patrick
- 689 reads
This is the prologue &; 1st page of a novel, SYLVANS that won
Gardenia Press national 1st novel award in 02.
PROLOGUE
612 AD
300 KILOMETERS WEST OF JERUSALEM.
The Centurion stooped in the low passageway descending to the bowels
of the Earth. He was tall, taller then most Romans. The flame of the
torch held by the slave just before him reflected in the sweat bathing
the corded muscles of his arms and brighter yet in the white scars
crossing his face. As they descended, the Centurion held the thick
figurine clenched between his left arm and ribcage. The knotted muscles
of his biceps and forearms betrayed the strength of his grip.
As they moved downward, the surrounding blackness swallowed the
dancing light from the slave's torch like demons lapping blood. The
Centurion's lips moved as he recited a single prayer, over and over,
for he was of the new religion that was beginning to spread and take
hold across the land. Beneath the armored breastplate, the Centurion
felt the comforting weight of the cross.
The bloodlust danced before his eyes, filled with the evil that fought
to take control of his body and his soul. Oh he was no stranger to
blood. He had led the Phallanx that broke the back of the barbaric
Germanic tribes on the northern borders of the Empire. Never showing
quarter or pity, he slew with abandon and when his men faltered, he
carried out the Decimation, his sword running red with the blood of his
own. But this, this impossible and evil lust that came to grip the
heart of men and even women, to kill their very young, slaying their
children and babies, was beyond anyone's experience.
He had fought with a supreme effort of will, perhaps helped by the
spiritual power of his new God. He had herded the surviving children
into a small stone enclosure at the edge of his outpost in the town of
Damora, three hundred kilometers from the nearest Roman garrison at
Jerusalem. With a few chosen legionnaires, he had fought and held back
his own men and the shepherds and farmers of Damora. The unnatural
bloodlust came in waves that lapped and pulled at the dark edges of the
soul. When the bloodlust receded, the Centurion went forth to find its
source.
He followed the rumors and the accounts of the hollow eyed and haunted
faces of those who had succumbed to the unholy power. He traced the
demonic evil to the newly arrived priest from the mountains east of
Damascus. The torn rags of the wretched priest belied the power of his
glittering eyes and the fanatic voice that rose in praise of the
N'Guth-Sherratzz. The Centurion had sensed the power of those eyes and
the siren song of blood that came from the strange figurine gripped by
the wretch's filthy arms.
The bloodlust had danced in his head and for brief panicked moments he
had imagined sharp blades slicing through small innocent limbs. The
Centurion had pulled his sword and with a savage cry beheaded the
priest, the figurine released by the limp arms, the blood soaking it
into the dirt of the street. It was barely the length of a man's arm
and weighted no more then a few stones. He hacked at it with his sword
but it was like striking the hardest granite imaginable and when he
stopped, the figurine bore not a mark of his fury.
He had picked up the figurine, blood and dirt clinging to his fingers,
the smell of death rank in his nostrils. He had felt its power reaching
to the very core of his being, to a place where the darkest desires of
evil resided. It was only by a supreme determination that the Centurion
had been able to maintain control.
He had heard of the cult of the N'Guth-Sherratzz. The whispers had
come on the evil wind from the distant outposts of the Empire at the
edges of civilization. The rumors came in hushed tones after the heat
of battle when the red wine loosens the tongues of men. It was said
that the N'Guth-Sherratzz was the first demon. Ancient, older then all
the Roman Gods, perhaps even older then his new God. The
N-Guth-Sherratz harbored an implacable hatred of humanity, for it was
said that he could only rule his domain of darkness after all men were
dead.
The Centurion had even sought the council of the Sightless Sage, the
ancient man of wisdom who lived in the cave of the Ancestors, tended by
the women of Damora. The Sage had also felt the evil that was loose
upon the land and had told the Roman how to defeat it. The Centurion
had followed the Sage's directions and found the cave that funneled
down into the earth to a narrow passageway. For ten days his
legionnaires had piled the vast mountain of rocks and when the
preparations were completed, the Centurion had said his prayers and
entered the mouth of the cave. A lone slave preceded him as he gripped
the evil figurine into the cave.
Orange licks of torchlight melted into dancing black shadows as the
Centurion and the slave descended further into the surrounding rock
until they came to the end of the ancient steps. They were in a small
room where a trickling underground stream drained into an opening in
the limestone. The flames of the torch shook with the trembling of the
slave's body and the Centurion's eyes watered. His throat felt dry and
his stomach knotted as the bloodlust reached a crescendo. He dropped to
his knees, struggling to release the figurine from his left arm that
refused to obey.
In less then a breath, the slave whirled, swinging the torch, striking
the Centurion in the face. The pain and shock of the sudden blow broke
the blood spell. With a savage cry of exultation, he released the
figurine, rose and drew his sword. The slave struck him again ,
blinding him. But the slave was no match for the battle-tested reflexes
of the Roman warrior. The sword whistled trough the air disemboweling
the slave, the torch falling and extinguishing itself in the
stream.
The Centurion knew what he had to do, had known since he had found the
cave. The vicious pain of his burnt eyes crowded out the clamoring
blood lust. He took the small crucifix form around his neck and placed
it in his mouth, continuously mumbling his prayer. In the blood thick
darkness of the cave, laced with the foul smell of the slave's
entrails, he laid the hilt of the sword against the rock floor with the
sharp blade pointing upward. He balanced himself against the sword, the
tip of the blade just below his ribcage and fell with all his weight,
transfixing himself on the blade.
As he swam away from the ocean of pain to the bright light of the
shore, the Centurion's last thought was that he had won after
all.
The dying rays of the setting sun were glinting off the top of the
mountain when the Centurion's aide gave the order that sent the huge
pile of rocks hurtling down into the cave, sealing it. His commander
had not reappeared and the Roman officer had been compelled by the iron
discipline of the Legions to carry out their Centurion's last
order.
SEPTEMBER, 2006
BROOKHAVEN NATIONAL LABORATORY. PHYSICS BUILDINGS.
UPTON, LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK.
Doctor Pravin Prabinwah thought Duncan Wesley was like an overheated
pressure cooker with undercurrents of violence leaking out the edges
like wisps of steam. Dr Prabinwah's colleague sat next to him with
bulging eyes peering out under thick glasses like a frightened owl.
Although the two scientists sitting across from Wesley represented the
best minds in the world of physics, they seemed like nothing more then
timid mice before a lurking hungry tomcat.
Duncan Wesley rose from his seat. He placed his hands on the table and
leaned forward from the waist until his face was less then two feet
from the scientists. They both craned their heads back as Wesley swung
his gaze from one to the other.
"I don't give a damn about your protocols and procedures or any other
academic bullshit," said Wesley. "You may be on the Government tit, but
right now I control the flow of milk. In other words gentlemen, your
ass is mine. I want that test run in forty-eight hours. Do you
understand that? Am I clear enough?"
Dr. Prabinwah glanced at his colleague who blinked furiously as he
licked his lips with little furtive movements of his tongue like a
nervous cat. He realized he would have to be the one to make this
volatile man understand, if that was possible at all.
"Uh, Mr. Wesley," said Prabinwah, "these are not military exercises we
can run on demand. Our protocols and procedures are not the problem.
Even eliminating all safety concerns, we must still deal with laws of
physics. Five days would be the absolute minimum."
"Why?"
Dr Prabinwah sighed. This was not the first time he had explained
this. He felt as if he was being interrogated, as if the man was trying
to trip him up somehow. He also knew he had no choice but to play along
and comply. In the last two weeks the Physics Science Department had
been hostage to Duncan Wesley and his National Security Agency mandate.
Since the arrival of the Artifact from Israel, all operating time of
the Ion Collider and the new Phased Pulse Array Nuclear Aligner were
locked in by the Agency. All other projects had been placed on
hold.
"Well, uh," replied Prabinwah, "without Dr Wu?"
Both scientists jumped as Wesley slammed his hand on the table, the
noise violent and alien against the muted whisperings of the computers
lining the opposing wall of the room.
"Screw Dr Wu," said Wesley. "He's already facing Federal charges for
his disappearing stunt. You can bet his ass is in a major sling when we
catch him. And that won't be very long."
"Yes, I understand," replied Prabinwah. "But that leaves only Dr
Hashimo and myself to interpret the data and set the Frequency Arrays.
The Artifact's ionic pulses must be correctly interpreted and the
alignment frequencies properly set before the Collider and the Phased
Pulse Array Nuclear Aligner can be effective. Any error would not only
negate the experiment but possibly ruin the Artifact for further
tests."
"How about I get you a couple dozen NSA computer techs or a couple
more physicists?" asked Wesley.
Dr Prabinwah smiled for the first time as he replied.
"That would be like getting a clerk-typist to do a dissertation on
surgery because she knows how to use a keyboard. Dr Hashimo, Dr Wu and
myself invented the theory and the machinery that is the Phased Pulse
Array Nuclear Aligner. This is a brand new science, even to us.
Bringing in outsiders would mean at least a year of training."
Wesley leaned back, his eyes never leaving the scientists. He sat for
what seemed endless moments before he replied.
"Five days. Five fucking days maximum."
Dr Prabinwah nodded. The undercurrent of threats and possible
violence, the intensity of the man, even the profanity had shaken the
academic's gentle soul. He wanted out, away from this man.
After the two scientists had left, Wesley raised his face toward the
ceiling and rotated his head like someone trying to get rid of a crick
in his neck. It always began this way, that unpleasant buzzing in his
head like a bee loose in his cranium. The buzzing settled to a sort of
background hum. Then, he felt the presence of the Sylvan.
It was late evening when Duncan Wesley stepped outside the main
Physics lab. He could recall how he got there, where his feet went for
each step, the feel of the handrail as he descended the stairs. But he
was not in control. He felt as if he was tied on the front seat of a
car while someone else drove. They might take your directions, or they
might not. He felt the force, the push and pull of the alien presence.
He didn't feel any threats, but still wondered what would happen if he
wanted the presence out.
Five days from now it wouldn't matter.
The grounds of Brookhaven National Laboratory form a U the size of a
small town. The top of the U abuts William Floyd Parkway and the U
itself is a band of Pine Barren forest about two miles wide. The Lab is
nestled inside the U. The Physics Lab and adjoining buildings housing
the Ion Collider and Nuclear Aligner are at the edge of those
woods.
Where the Sylvan waited.
CHAPTER 1-- FIRST ENCOUNTER
THE ROCKY POINT, PINE BARRENS PRESERVE.
RIDGE ROAD, ROCKY POINT, LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK
Even if Joe had not been drinking, he probably still would have hit
the child. It was almost as if the child fell out of the darkness above
Joe's headlight beams directly onto the road. Before Joe's alcohol
laden reflex could even begin to apply the brakes, the small body hit
the hood of the Camry with a soggy plunking noise. He bounced over the
windshield with flailing arms, hit the roof with a dull thud and
disappeared. Sick with horror Joe stood on the brake, stopping the car
fifty feet away.
A kid for God's sake. He knew another DUI would land him in jail so he
had deliberately chosen the long way home. Thirteen miles of deserted
road winding through the desolate Pine Barrens forest of eastern Long
Island.
Joe wrenched open the glove box, half tearing off his fingernail, the
pain drowned by the vast amount of adrenaline crowding out the alcohol
in his blood. Flashlight, gotta have a flashlight, he thought. I own a
hardware store godammit. He found a pencil light and pushed the switch.
A feeble beam illuminated the open door of the car as he jumped
out.
Oh please God, don't let this child be dead, please, please, he
thought. He knew to the core of his being that he had to take care of
this kid, no matter what the consequences. He had to somehow make this
right. He ran toward the small huddled form dimly lit by the glow of
his taillights. He stumbled and fell, his hands painfully scrapped by
the rough blacktopped road, the little flashlight rolling away. He
cursed and rose picking up the light and ran the last few feet to the
child.
It happened so quickly that for a split-second, he almost believed it
was a booze fantasy. This child suddenly stood up, impossibly fast
after suffering such a hit. It was no more then four feet tall with
strangely elongated limbs. What was he wearing, Joe thought, some sort
of black bathrobe? Its dark facial skin was riddled with folds and
wrinkles, the eyes, yellow and luminescent. They were large eyes like
those cartoon kids you see in toy stores, only not cute. Not cute at
all. With impossible speed, the child-creature darted from Joe's weak
flashlight beam into the viscous blackness of the woods.
Once Joe had been sitting in a gin mill, minding his own business when
a drunk sucker-punched him, knocking him off the stool. He had sat
there, dazed and uncomprehending, blood from his nose gushing on his
shirt and pants. He felt the same
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