Daven's Stream.
copyright 1998 by A. Fraser
. There was blood. More blood than he'd thought, black in the
moonlight, steaming and stinking as it leaked from both his own body and
the carcass of the man he'd just killed. Groaning, his muscles protesting,
he dragged himself to his feet. The night went spinning, the moon mocking
his weakness, and a thin bitter stream of vomit trickled from out of his
mouth to join the blood on the ground. His lungs ached as he tried to take
in more air. But half his life had been spent in learning to control his
body, to marshall his resources; and the moment of weakness passed.
Limping, hand clutched over the worst of the seeping wounds, he
approached the fallen, broken body of his foe. Warm liquid coated his
fingers and he cursed. Cursed the man who lay at his feet, the large body
now rendered harmless, the once white hair clotted with blood and brain
matter. Matthew had died hard, a hard death for a hard man. His killer...
no, his executioner... knew that life had ceased in that still form.
Noone, no matter how powerful, could sustain such injuries and still live.
But he kicked the sole of the nearest boot, the motion sending shock waves
of pain through his own body. If he did not find medical help soon, his
victory would be meaningless.
The fight had been on more than the physical plane, and he was
exhausted, his strength gone, his reserves strained to their limit. Lights
flashed on the periphery of his vision, the dancing phosphoresence of
impending unconciousness. He couldn't afford to pass out. The monumental
struggle that had taken place had attracted attention, there were *things*
waiting on the perimeters of the circle. There would be those who would
seek to avenge Matthew's death, and news of death travels quickly. To pass
out here would be to die.
But his training was so well imbedded that he broke the circle with
the proper ritual, and warded himself as well as his fading power and
strength allowed. This left him barely able to walk, but his physical
wellbeing was not as important as the magical. The burnt ozone smell of
magic tingled in his nostrils, blocking out the less pleasant effluvia of
death, of tortured flesh, even of the scuffed earth where the battle lines
had been drawn. The *things* on the edges made way for him to pass, sharp
eyes watching him, small snuffling noises and scrabbling claws marking
their movements. One sign of weakness and they would be on him. Flared
nostrils showed they scented blood; luckily the smell of death was more
enticing to them than that of still living flesh.
"Bon appetit," he muttered wearily, pushing his way past them,
putting the circle and the dead Matthew behind him. He closed his ears to
the sounds of feeding.
Rebellion had been a long time coming to Raymond Arthur Griffin, but
when it had flared, it had been deadly to his master.
He had a plan. Had to have, or else this would have been his death,
too. Just get through this part, past these tall shadows of trees, the
scent of pine of death of blood of magic, through the dead needles and
leaves that squelched and crunched underfoot, trail of blood, of spent
magic behind him, things moving in the shadows, through this part, through
this damned bloody night.
Cold metal, moonlight glancing off chrome and glass, smell of
gasoline, of rubber. It took him a minute to form a word for what blocked
his escape route. "Car." Could he drive? Was it advisable when he
couldn't even remember what this machine was called? Something scrunched
in the undergrowth behind him, snuffling, a deep growl hungry for blood.
It was the car or death.
Small strips of shaped metal dangling from a knob beside the
wheel, he could see these through the glass. Keys. Window. Steering
wheel. He forced himself to remember the words, to fumble at the handle
(yes, handle, that was the word) and to pull the door open. The movement
made him teeter, more blood dripping. Something in the woods licked its
lips. He slid into the seat behind the wheel with a surge of new strength
called self preservation. He hadn't gone to all the trouble of killing
Matthew only to succumb to the feeders. Pull the door closed, never mind
how it opens the wound in the shoulder, how it hurts muscles that
surrendered hours ago.
Turn the key. Foot goes on this pedal, here. Smell of gasline,
rumble of engine coming to life, vibrations sent through aching, aching body.
Turn the wheel. Concentrate. Lights. Concentrate.
It was a nightmare, but so was dying.
Matthew had not known why this battleground had been chosen,
other than its distance from human habitation, its being on a ley line for
drawing power. It was also near a road where the car had been hidden, and
the road led to sanctuary, of a sort. A place Ray had heard whispers of,
whispers from discontented coven members, whispers reeking of fear and bad
whiskey. A safe place.
Daven's Stream. He'd thought they'd said Daven's Dream at first.
Not a true sanctuary, but a safe house, somewhere he could at least
recuperate.
Until they came looking for him. And they would.
A farmhouse, fields of black wheat rippling in the moonlight,
smell of cow, of fresh earth, no blood scent. The car seemed to turn of
its own accord into the rutted driveway, more jolts to a badly wounded
body. He had not the strength to open the door, to speak to the people who
came out of the farm house. Hands reached for him, voices, too loud,
exclaiming, but no questions, simply help offered. Somewhere along the
trip into the farmhouse, the blackness claimed him.
He came to in a bed, bandaged to the eyebrows, feeling warm and
safe for the first time in far too many years. The bloodsmell was gone,
replaced by antiseptic, sun-dried sheets, apples.
Daven had explained the farm to him. It was no sanctuary, no
refuge for such as he. It was a place to rest, yes, welcome to all Wiccans
or magic-weary, but for a killer, for one fleeing from darkness into
darkness, there was no safety. They could not protect him, and for the
safety of those who did need the farm, he must move on. He understood,
only too well. But they tended him well, treated him fairly, mended his
wounds and let him gain his strength back. He and Daven had many talks, he
was given advice which he would later take. He milked a cow, rode a horse,
played with the tumble puppies and children; all part of the healing. When
it was time to move on, he did so without regrets and with a wholer heart.
And he stayed in touch with the kind, wise people on the farm,
would occasionally send them someone in less dire straits than he had been.
But he never forgot that night of blood, either, the stain that would not
him be a part of the farm community.
He was still a marked man.
Seven years.
There was no significance in the number, merely coincidence. The
insistence of non-magically endowed people in imbuing the number seven with
deep occult meaning never failed to amuse and mystify the truly gifted.
There were numbers that had such meanings. Three and five, for example.
But seven meant nothing, particularily.
Seven years.
It had a historical, personal meaning to the man behind the wheel of the
car. Seven years had passed since he had last taken this trip. He'd been
coming from another direction, then. It had been night, and he had been
badly wounded. But journeys aren't always about the details, like time of
day or the highway number.
Seven years.
A nightmare lifetime before that, 28 years of terror. Perhaps the number
had power after all, four times seven... exactly half of which had been
spent under a thick cloak woven of blood and the shadows of night, woven of
black magic and sharp, cruel words, woven of hate.
For the first fourteen years of his life, Raymond Griffin had lived with
the knowledge that his father hated him for being a witch. The powers he
manifested, untrained, afraid, the raw magic stinking in his nostrils;
these brought on the temper tantrums, the bullying, the beatings. He had
been shielded from the worst of it for a few, sunshine-brilliant years by
his mother. His father was stronger, and killed her, though it was made to
look like an accident. As were all the black eyes, bruised ribs, broken
bones, broken heart of the boy. His mind, diamond hard, already building
defenses before it knew the word "wards"; this alone could not be broken,
not be bent.
He knew, with every aching, weary muscle, how leather felt when brought
down with anger on bare skin, how a fist felt smashing into cheekbones,
into soft abdominal tissue, how it felt to have your own father turn a
blowtorch on your back and laugh as the skin melted and you screamed and
screamed and screamed.
How it felt to have him spit on you as you writhed on the ground, and
snarl, "You burn witches."
Fourteen years in that hell, and he had only traded it for another kind.
Feel of rope in hands, strands like snaky splinters; muscles aching to
hold, newly healed back screaming in pain as a too-thin body wiggled out
the bedroom window. If he closed his eyes now, 28 years later (multiple of
seven again), he could still feel the jolt as he had landed on the ground
beneath his window.
Another teen runaway, another statistic. He never found out what his
father told the authorities. "Bad to the bone, tried to raise him right,
ungrateful little brat, took everything from my wallet, you catch him,
throw him in jail, he's not my son anymore." Another lost face in the
crowds of hungry lost faces on the street.
The streets are not mean. Streets have no personality, they are simply
thoroughfares. It is the people who throng them who make them mean, the
cold faceless one who pass the shivering young stranger who are mean. It
is the system, with too many cracks in it, potholes, where the lost can
slip into the shadows, never to be found; the system is mean. The streets
are only streets.
Ray became another thin boy on the streetcorner, dressed in stolen leathers
painted with gang colours, bumming cigarettes, learning to hotwire cars and
use a knife. The city effluvia of car exhaust, rotting fruit, dog shit,
human urine, old wet newspapers for a bed... these became his identity, the
steady hum of traffic, horns honking, swearing, gunfire; his
lullaby. The gang was impressed by his scars, noone they knew had ever
been burned by a blowtorch. "Bad trip, man. Bad trip."
Yet there was no sense of family here. Even though he had learned to
suppress his magic, Ray was different, and the gang sensed it. Almost
feral, they could smell that he was different, dangerously so; no name to
put on it, but he made them uneasy. And he had little time in the colours,
they came, the street sweepers, the do-gooders, rounded up the gangs, broke
up friendships, connections, the only sense of community these ragged
children had.
No father came to claim Raymond Griffin. Unwanted, he drew back into the
comforting shadows, biding his time. His power was hungry, demanding to be
fed, trained; and it called out. It was heard.
Seven years.
This time it was daylight, the gentle gray of a fall day when rain
threatened, but not seriously. The leaves had not yet turned, and hung
tiredly from the trees, dusty green globs in the haze. The rain was
needed, Ray noticed, the ground was dry, the crops withering. It had been
a long, hot summer.
Seven years.
He was not fresh from battle, knife wounds superating, pyschic and physical
energy drained, the taint of a man's death in his clothes, his mind. He
was older and perhaps wiser, certainly far more experienced, certainly
sadder. And a falcon perched on the back of the passenger seat this time,
watching the road with avid, beady eyes. Andrei knew better than to act up
in the car.
Seven years.
Ray turned down the driveway, smiling when he noted that it was still
rutted, still jolted the car. This time, he had no injuries to be
aggravated, though it still did not do his perpetually bad back any
favours. He remained fully concious when people poured out of the
farmhouse to greet him. He found himself wrapped into a hug that included
Daven, Daven's wife Nora, and at least two of the kids. Laughing, he broke
free.
"Daven, Nora," he said, smiling. "It's good to see you."
"Ray," they chorused. "Come inside, come inside. It's been too long."
He found himself in the kitchen, clean white butcher block table, green
linoleum, pine cupboards. The wonderful aroma of coffee and apple pie
assaulted his nose, he found himself hungry. Food and coffee were
produced, and the family sat down at the table to gaze at their visitor.
"I feel like the prodigal son," Ray complained, but his eyes twinkled. He
had not looked for such a welcome here.
"We're happy to see you," Daven replied. "We enjoy your letters and notes,
but it's good to see the flesh, too."
"What little there is of it," Nora said predictably.
"Not you, too!" Ray protested. "I eat quite well, I just burn it all off."
"Still smoking?" she asked, frowning.
"Quit." He laid his hands out on the table, palms up. "Now stop being a
Mom, and tell me how things are here."
They caught each other up on what they'd been doing for seven years. Ray
exclaimed over the Lawford children. Those who had been toddlers seven
years ago were now preteens, and the preteens were young adults. The
Lawfords had six kids in all. "Farm's good for growing all kinds of
things." Ray talked about the Brotherhood, knowing that he could trust
this family, and his discovery of his Amberite heritage. About Jenny and
Chance, and losing them, he said nothing.
Daven looked at him sharply. "And there's been no sign of anyone coming to
make you pay for what you did?" he asked.
"Not so far," Ray shrugged. "It could be that they find the Brotherhood
and the wards on the Road a bit intimidating, but even when I'm alone, with
only Andrei here, there's been no attempt at revenge." He drank some
coffee. "Yet."
"Seven years..." Nora said thoughtfully. "Surely they would have done
something by now."
"With them, one can never be sure," Ray said. "But I won't stay long, I
will not bring danger to this place. I just wanted to see you again,"
"We're fine," Daven replied. "Now then stay a spell, okay?"
"What kind of spell?" Ray asked, and they laughed.
But he knew he wouldn't stay long, because of the "spell". Because of the damned magic.