~ Deciphering the Rift ~
or, The Rift and the Renegade
by Rhiannon Silverflame
Chapter Seventeen
"Janice, I'm going out for a bit. I need to take care of a couple of things."
The archaeologist looked up from her coffee mug to Kaitlyn, who was standing in the hallway. "Out of smokes, are you?" she asked.
Kaitlyn nodded. "Dangerously close to it, anyway." Still horribly tense after their roadside encounter with Dobson and his friend two days ago, the girl from Harvard had almost doubled her daily cigarette intake. "You or Mel need anything?"
"Not that I can think of, but thanks." Janice leaned back in her chair, casting the linguist an appraising glance. "How you holding up, kid?"
"Oh, 'bout as well as can be expected, I guess. Oh, hey!" Kaitlyn stepped through the doorway into the kitchen. "Here's what I finished today. Gotta tell you, it was fun as all hell to translate; very eloquent stuff. Give it a look." She laid a small stack of paper down on the table in front of Janice, who whistled in surprise.
"All of this?" Janice asked.
"Uh huh. Well, I'm going to go buy me some cigarettes and a few things now. Happy reading. I'll be back in an hour or so." Kaitlyn headed for the foyer.
Janice waved absently, already scanning over the translations. "You got it, kid."
In the foyer, Kaitlyn put on her coat and hat. It really was a bit warm out in the South Carolina weather for such accoutrements, but she always felt somewhat naked without them. A strange thing, too; both the Burberry trenchcoat and the black wool fedora held painful memories from her not-too-distant past.
The coat had been a Christmas present from her parents, the year she was nineteen. Two weeks later, though, they'd discovered a letter from Joni, her girlfriend at the time, and after the nasty yelling matches and sundry emotional scenes that ensued, the two senior members of the Velasquez family had left for England. The escalation of the war effectively eliminated most of the possibility of them coming back to the States, and so the only contact Kaitlyn had with her parents for the next year had come through the occasional, formal letter. Then, when she'd informed them of her decision to attend Harvard, the letters had ceased entirely. Now, she could only guess as to their whereabouts.
The hat had been a gift from Joni. Their relationship had been intense, passionate, and short-lived, swinging from one extreme of emotion to another with frightening regularity. In the aftermath of a particularly heated fight, Kaitlyn had come home to find Joni's still body on the bed, several empty pill bottles lying on the floor near her. She'd fled the North End that night, coming back only long enough to pack up her things and move across town, no small feat in Boston. The memory still haunted her dreams.
The young linguist sighed and pulled the brim of the fedora low over her eyes. Gods above, I can't keep any kind of relationship together to save my damn life. Putting one of her last two cigarettes between her lips, she shut the door behind her, lit the Dunhill, climbed into her jeep, and drove off.
Janice poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down with Kaitlyn's translations. There were easily ten pages here, all written in the linguist's exacting hand. At the top of the first page, Kaitlyn had scribbled a note: "Best I can tell, this would be considered 'apocryphal' at this point. It doesn't seem to tie in with the rest of the Rift events, not that I can see. I'll have to check it against whatever we translate later, and maybe against Rhonwyn's lifesong if need be. For the meantime, though, take it with a grain of salt."
Kaitlyn was right, Janice decided. This truly was "eloquent stuff." Gabrielle's own talent with words, combined with the bardic craft which Rhonwyn had carefully honed in the Celtic tradition, made for powerful storytelling even in translation, thanks to Kaitlyn's skilled, faithful translation. The words came vividly to life for Janice, who felt more like she was seeing the account firsthand than reading it.
* * *
"Xena, it's beautiful here," breathed the bard, hands gripping the warrior's arm as she took in the scenery. They had just arrived in Britannia, and for the moment her resentment against their reasons for being here was forgotten, lost in the breathtaking sights of this land so different from Greece.
"Yes," Xena murmured absently. "Come on, let's move. I want to find Boadicea." She gave Gabrielle a little pat on the back, and they set off, Xena's instinct taking the place of an actual knowledge of the island's geography. The truth was, she had no idea where to set about finding the warrior queen . . . not that it was about to stop her.
Gabrielle reached out and lightly caressed the trunk of a tree as she passed. "There's an energy here, in this place," she murmured. "I can feel it."
"It's an ancient land. Its people cling very strongly to that." The warrior tensed, ice-blue eyes narrowing in a way that Gabrielle recognized as a warning of potential danger. Her sword was drawn in a split second, and the warrior whirled, bringing it to bear in front of her.
Iron met iron in a loud, unexpected clang. To her surprise, Xena found herself facing a wiry young woman clad in leather breeches and a black-and-red checked tunic. A slender circlet of braided silver, two eagles' heads meeting each other in the front, encircled her neck; a chain mail vest glittered in the sunlight that filtered through the branches overhead, and a flowing cloak of rich green completed the ensemble. The young woman's benevolent demeanor contrasted weirdly with the single-edged, two-handed sword she grasped, parrying Xena's blade.
The stranger spoke, in Greek, much to their surprise. "Peace, traveler," she said to Xena, taking her right hand from the hilt of her sword and placing the back of it against her forehead, palm outward in a gesture of greeting. "I intend you no harm."
"Yeah, that explains that sword you're pointing at me real well, doesn't it?" Xena spat.
The other woman smiled and brought the sword to rest with its point on the ground, short strands of dark brown hair falling into gold-flecked hazel eyes. "You drew on me first," she pointed out calmly. "A worthy instinct, to be sure, with these Romans about our land. All the same, I assure you, I had no intentions of attacking you."
Still, Xena gripped her sword, not quite trusting the stranger's words. "Then who are you, and why did you sneak up on us?"
"My name is Rhonwyn," answered the young woman, "and I'm a traveler like yourself. I've only recently returned home-this land is my home, you see."
"A traveler?" Gabrielle repeated, coming to Xena's side.
Rhonwyn nodded. "That's right. I'm something of a wanderer, you see. Only I've wandered much further than some of my fellows."
"There are others like you?" Gabrielle asked.
"Absolutely." Rhonwyn smiled again. "I'm a Druid, though the Brotherhood no longer considers me one." She indicated her sword, as if in explanation. A hint of sarcasm touched her voice. "At the very least, they allowed me to keep my title as a bard."
"You're a bard?" Gabrielle could barely contain her excitement.
"Gabrielle," warned Xena through clenched teeth, in that tone of voice that meant, "Stay out of this."
The young blonde woman continued, ignoring her partner. "You're really a bard? I am, too! Well, okay, maybe not the same kind of bard as you, but back where I come from, you could consider me one. Is that how you know our language?"
"The Learned Brotherhood teaches us these things, yes," Rhonwyn confirmed. "And yes, I'm a bard." She fingered the edge of her green cloak. "My job is to travel, gather news and information, and to pass it on. And to keep alive the culture of my people through story and song."
"News and information?" Only now did Xena relax and sheathe her sword. "Do you know anything about Caesar and his whereabouts?"
Rhonwyn's expression turned bitter. "I most certainly do. Is that what brings you here to Prydein?"
"It is," answered the warrior. "I'm also looking for Boadicea."
"Boadicea of the Iceni? I can take you to her." Rhonwyn looked intently at Xena. "Would you mind if I traveled with you for a while? I know the land, and I know the language. I can be your guide. If you don't mind, that is. I can also swing a pretty mean sword, and lately that sort of skill comes in handy."
Gabrielle nudged Xena, who said, "Mind? I guess not. It's important that I find Boadicea, and if you know this area well it would be a lot of help." The words were clipped, forceful.
"Then it's settled?" Rhonwyn smiled again, her attention drawn more to the warrior's blonde companion than to the warrior herself. At Xena's curt nod of confirmation, she continued, "Well then, if we're to be traveling together, I suppose I wouldn't mind knowing your names. It's only fair, don't you think?"
Gabrielle giggled, and Xena allowed herself the briefest of smiles. "I'm Xena," she said, offering her hand to the young Druid, who clasped it in a warrior's handshake.
"Gabrielle," the bard introduced herself.
"And as I said, I'm Rhonwyn." The Celt smiled. "Let's get moving, shall we?" She picked up the long, smooth length of her rowan staff, which she'd dropped when Xena attacked, sheathed her sword, and led the way.
They would have to travel for more than two weeks to reach the territory of the Iceni. Rhonwyn's knowledge of the land proved to be invaluable, not only in navigating through the area, but in earning them a night's lodging when they came to various towns. A simple petition and a song or two were more than enough to get the three women good rooms and food in each village where they stopped. Gabrielle and Xena were both impressed by Rhonwyn's skill with her voice and with the crwth, the small harp she carried with her. As they journeyed, Xena and Rhonwyn exchanged their knowledge of herbal properties, and Gabrielle prevailed upon the Druid to teach her elements of Celtic bardcraft, which Rhonwyn did gladly.
On their fourth day of traveling, they encountered a small band of rather scruffy-looking men headed in the direction of the village they had just left.
"Picti raiders," Rhonwyn whispered as the men drew close enough for her to make out their clothing. "From up north, beyond the Wall. How in Lleu's name did they get this far south?" Quickly she drew Gabrielle and Xena into the bushes.
They waited in silence for a few minutes. Listening carefully to the rough dialect of their conversation, Rhonwyn said in alarm, "They're going to attack the village. We've got to stop them!"
Xena smiled grimly and pulled her sword. "I thought you'd never ask."
Rhonwyn laid her rowan staff on the ground and drew her own sword. Gabrielle eyed the Druid curiously before taking her own staff into a combat grip. They lay in wait until the men approached. "Easily a dozen of them. Wonderful," Rhonwyn muttered.
Xena tensed. "Now," she murmured. Leaping from the bushes with her distinctive battle cry, she laid into the first three raiders with a wild-eyed glee, looking more in her element than she had since arriving.
Gabrielle followed her partner, ramming the butt end of her staff into the pit of a fourth man's stomach before sweeping the other end up to catch him under the chin and dump him unceremoniously onto the ground. She pivoted hard, crunching another man's kneecap.
Rhonwyn brought the dull edge of her two-handed sword up over her head in a parry, catching a Picti short sword in mid-swing. She kicked out, connecting solidly with the raider's crotch. While he was doubled over in pain, she hooked the sword back down around him to catch him behind the knees. When he fell, she ran him through with a sigh of disgust, and whirled to engage another raider.
Xena swatted a thrown dagger from the air and somersaulted, landing solidly on top of the raider who'd thrown it, one foot on each of his kidneys. She swung her sword, neatly lopping off his head. Quicker than thought, the warrior reversed her grip on the sword, thrusting it out behind her to impale yet another raider.
Gabrielle planted the end of her staff on the ground and leaped, kicking out with both feet to knock one man, and the one behind him sprawling. She poked them both a few times to make sure they were out cold before running off to drop another raider who was going after Xena by conking him on the head.
Three dead, four unconscious; not bad at all, was Xena's assessment of the battle. A few quick cuts of her sword upped the first tally to five. On her left, Gabrielle landed a glancing blow to a raider's wrist, knocking the sword from his hand. Two more rapid strikes in succession, and the count was up to five and five.
Rhonwyn wielded her two-handed sword with astonishing grace and skill, strikes, parries, and thrusts flowing one to another with fluid ease. The blade sang in the air, cutting a shimmering pattern of deadly beauty that gutted one raider and left the last one with a slit throat.
In the chilling silence that followed the din of battle, Rhonwyn took a coil of rope from her pack and set about tying up the raiders who were still alive. When they regained consciousness, the warrior, the bard, and the Druid brought them back to the village and left them at the hands of the chieftain's justice.
"You fight well," Rhonwyn told Xena once they were on their way again. "By Lleu himself, I've never seen such skill!"
"Years of experience," Xena replied, sadly recalling another Celt she'd once known. "I had . . . good teachers. You're not bad yourself, you know. That's quite an unusual fighting style you have-but effective. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"
"In my travels. No one among the Cymry-that's the name of my people-would teach me because of my status in the Brotherhood, so I journeyed to Gaul and then beyond. In the lands well southeast of the Belgae, I encountered a slave from the far East who taught me some fighting skills and gave me the sword. The rest . . ." She shrugged. "It just comes to me."
The Druid reached inside her tunic and drew out an elaborate amulet that hung about her neck on a leather cord, just below her torc. "The shield of Cerridwen," she said reverently, caressing the interlocking strands of gold that made up the amulet's design. "This type of artwork is the traditional design of my people. Each line flows into the next."
Xena nodded, remembering M'Lila again. "Yes, I've seen that sort of design before," she said. Understanding dawned on her. "And you incorporate it into your fighting style."
The Druid smiled. "Exactly. For me, fighting is as much a part of my existence as my music and my learning, so I strive to unify them in this way." She shook her head ruefully. "The Brotherhood could never understand that."
"This Brotherhood," interrupted Gabrielle, "is that the rest of the Druids?"
"That's right, Gabrielle. You're very intuitive." Rhonwyn fixed her eyes on the young bard's face, and her eyes grew searching. "I believe . . . you have great power of some sort, it seems. I can feel that in you."
Gabrielle flushed, not sure what to make of the look and the comment. "Uh, thanks, I guess," she mumbled bashfully.
"And a reverence for life as well," Rhonwyn continued. She laid one hand on Gabrielle's shoulder, the other gripping her rowan staff, as they walked. "You fight with a staff, I see. Not to kill, but to defend. That's admirable."
Gabrielle looked over at Rhonwyn. "You carry a staff too," she observed. "But you don't fight with it. What's it for?"
The Druid laughed and hefted the length of wood in front of her. "Besides making an excellent walking stick?" Gabrielle's laughter joined in with hers and she continued, "The rowan staff. All joking aside, it's a symbol of my authority as a Druid. Makes an odd contrast with the sword, though. I'm not sure people know what to make of me."
"Catch 'em by surprise that way," remarked Xena. "They'll never know whether you're going to whack them over the head or give them a blessing."
"Xena!" Gabrielle was shocked by her friend's irreverence.
But Rhonwyn merely chuckled. "That's about the essence of it."
Xena offered a tight smile. "Useful."
"It is that."
The days passed quickly, marked by the occasional skirmish with raiders or a few rogue Roman soldiers. In the peaceful times, though, Rhonwyn and Gabrielle traded stories of their respective countries and of their adventures; Xena, for her part, tried to rein in her young companion's enthusiastic tales of their exploits together, and traveled in relative silence otherwise. The Druid seemed to be taking a particular liking to Gabrielle, which made the warrior a bit jealous. Things had been a bit uneasy between her and the bard as of late, but Xena was still fiercely possessive of her lover.
So it was with an uneasy sort of distant pride that Xena observed as Gabrielle's bardic skills were honed a bit further under Rhonwyn's tutelage. And as they neared the territory of the Iceni and its warrior queen, her impatience and lust for vengeance grew to quickly become the foremost thoughts in her mind.
"Well, my friends, I must be going, I'm afraid." Rhonwyn stood before them, her pack slung over her shoulders and her staff in hand.
The warrior, just returned from a meeting with Boadicea, asked, "Where are you off to? With what's coming up soon, we could really use you."
The Druid shifted uneasily. "I must . . . well, with what I've learned here of the situation with Caesar, I think I'd better go spread the news. I'm sorry to leave so quickly. But I think I have to."
"We'll miss you," said Gabrielle. "You've taught me so much. I can't thank you enough."
"And I'll miss you-both of you-as well," Rhonwyn replied, smiling sadly. "But don't worry. I'm sure we'll meet again. I've seen it." She clasped Xena's arm firmly, then Gabrielle's. "I'd best be on my way. Goodbye for now, Xena, Gabrielle." She turned to go, then halted. Eyes fixed on Gabrielle's, she asked, "Would you mind terribly if I sent you off with a blessing?" She forced her gaze toward Xena. "Consider it a parting gift."
"I'd love it," Gabrielle assured her with a brilliant smile, which the Druid tried studiously to avoid. "Xena?" the bard asked her companion, knowing the warrior's general aversion to the gods.
"No, I don't think I'd mind," the warrior said slowly, observing the discomfort that Rhonwyn was trying so hard to hide. "We could probably use it."
"All right, then." Rhonwyn traced a design in the air to the north with the rowan staff, and repeated it to the south, east, and west. She raised her right hand above her head, holding the rowan staff parallel with the ground; her left hand she held palm outward in front of her at shoulder height. Turning to face her erstwhile traveling companions, she began to declaim:
"Power of wind be upon you; may it grant you strength unseen.
Power of fire be yours, that you burn with a passionate blaze.
Power of earth be with you; may you be grounded in your convictions.
Power of water be yours, that you flow with fluid grace.
A blessing go with you, my friends; may you walk in the light of love and goodness."
Both the warrior and the bard were silent a moment, awed by the authority of the Druid's words.
"Thank you," Gabrielle murmured, coming up beside Rhonwyn and placing a hand lightly on the Celt's own. Rhonwyn looked away a moment.
"Yes, thank you," Xena echoed, her voice tight. Then, with effort, "Be well, Rhonwyn."
Rhonwyn smiled warmly, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "The same to you. Farewell."
* * *
"Well, my."
Janice jumped. "Mel! Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me! How long have you been reading over my shoulder?"
The dark-haired Southerner kissed her lover's earlobe. "Oh, since about the second paragraph. That's quite a story."
"Yeah, tell me about it." The archaeologist ran her fingers through her hair. "Hell of a translation-I was totally engrossed in this thing. Kaitlyn really did good."
"Did well."
"Aw, hush up."
The front door clicked open, and Kaitlyn let herself in, three cartons of cigarettes under one arm. "I'm back," she announced breathlessly.
The linguist took off her coat and hat and walked into the kitchen. Her face was haggard, and she looked considerably roughed up. "Oh gods, what a fucking mess!" She tossed the cartons of Dunhills onto the table, fell into a chair, and pulled out her hip flask. "Jesus Christ." She took a healthy swig from the flask.
"Kaitlyn, you look terrible!" Mel exclaimed, alarmed. "What in the world happened?"
"Gee, thanks." Kaitlyn looked tiredly at her two friends. "Ran into a couple of guys in the city who thought they'd pick on me. I beat 'em up good enough, but they got a few knocks in first."
"You all right?" Janice was concerned.
"Better than they'll be. They'll wake up feeling like they got kicked in the head by a Centaur, and I think I left a few cracked ribs, bloody noses, and maybe a broken arm behind me."
"That's all? Ow!" Janice exclaimed when Mel swatted her lightly for the comment. "Well, shit, what did they want?"
"Damned if I know," Kaitlyn groaned. "One of 'em said something about my not being able to take a hint, and then all four of 'em laid into me."
Mel went to the sink and returned shortly with a wet cloth, which she handed to Kaitlyn, who thanked her and pressed it to her forehead. "This isn't about the Scrolls, is it?" the translator asked worriedly.
Kaitlyn gave her a bleak look. "How much you wanna bet? Damned English language doesn't let you know whether "you" is in the second-person plural or singular, unless the context supplies that."
"What?" Janice wondered if the four thugs had scrambled Kaitlyn's brain any. "What the hell are you talking about?"
The graduate student tossed back another mouthful from the flask. "Slipped into linguist mode again, did I? I was just thinking about how they said 'You just can't take a hint, can you?' I'm wondering if they meant just me, or all of us . . ."
Janice grimaced. "I'll bet you half my salary they meant all of us. Shit, for someone who looks so clean-cut and harmless, this Dobson's a nasty character. Figures. I bet those guys were in league with him." She watched Kaitlyn take another pull off the flask. "What have you got in there, anyway?"
The linguist managed a sardonic smile. "I'm a student of Celtic culture. It's Scotch, for gods' sakes."
Chapter Eighteen
I wonder if they realize why I left? Yes, it is true that I had to spread the news of Caesar's latest designs on Prydein, but a few words to two or three fellow bards would soon have been on the lips of thirty others. I feared for myself and for my two companions. I know this power I have, and it frightens me. The ability to almost unconsciously will a situation involving my desires into being is by no means to be taken lightly, for it is a dangerous power if left unchecked, and requires all my fortitude to control. No, it was for the sake of the love between the warrior and the bard that I parted ways with them. But to give up my own heart in so doing . . .
The rest of the Druids, for all that they espouse the greater value of peaceful ways to resolve problems, do not seem to recognize that where I am concerned, at least, love can be a dangerous thing.
Like energy speaks to like; it enhances it and makes it stronger. That is what we have always understood, and that is why Cuall was so reluctant to induct me into the Brotherhood. We are very few, the women who know its mysteries. In his awen, Cuall saw that I would possess great power for the good of Prydein and our people, and that I must be taught to use it. For that reason alone, I was allowed to learn from him what I know today.
Like energy speaks to like; that is why, perhaps, I was drawn so powerfully to Xena of Amphipolis and Gabrielle of Poteidaia. I understood them both, the warrior and the bard. But the way of battle is not the way that dominates my existence, for despite the fact that I acknowledge its necessity, I have never gladly taken a life. I will uphold my people in battle, and fight for and alongside them as needed, but each killing blow from my sword cries as loudly in my ears as the person who meets that deadly edge.
Like energy speaks to like; I believe that it is the reason that my heart began to give itself over to the young Amazon bard. Because of that philosophy, it is accepted, though uncommon, that the love between one man and another, or one woman and another, among my people is a valid thing. I feel no shame for beginning to love Gabrielle, for it is that reverence for life, the art of story and song, that way of the bard which she follows, that dominates my existence. I am a bard first and foremost, not a warrior, though skilled in both paths. I was drawn more strongly to Gabrielle than to Xena, and that attraction grew to something I could not, for all my Druidic skill, control
And in light of the volatile power of my will and my desire, I could not stay.
* * *
Kaitlyn laid aside her notebook and whistled. "I'll be damned," she muttered. This latest section of Rhonwyn's lifesong seemed to confirm the "apocryphal" Rift Scroll she'd given Mel and Janice the day before. Her ancestor had been in love with Gabrielle! What kind of implications did this have?
She wanted to know more about this will-magick power that Rhonwyn seemed to possess. Rhonwyn had spoken of the power being extremely dangerous. It worried her. She couldn't remember how often she herself had wanted something badly enough, and ended up getting it. Be careful what you wish for, she ruminated regretfully, or you just might wind up getting it. And how many times have I fucked someone else up in the process? More times than she cared to count, that was for sure. The thought of the innate magickal power she supposedly possessed only served to increase her worries. She couldn't be sure how much of her fears were genuine and how much was due to the increased pressure from Dobson's thinly-disguised threats. But still, the fears were there, and they nagged at her terribly.
The linguist was jarred from her troubling thoughts by the sound of Mel's alarmed shout down the hall, calling her name. It caught her by surprise at first-why her, and not Janice? But instinct already had Kaitlyn tearing out of her bedroom with her gun in hand before she remembered that Janice and her many skills were up to the neck in the repair of some leaky pipes down in the basement.
She found Mel by the front door, peering anxiously out the window.
"What's happening, Mel?"
The classicist pointed down the driveway. Kaitlyn looked, and proceeded to swear colorfully in several languages, both ancient and modern. "Dobson. That goddamned prick. How the hell did he get here?" She slipped the Colt .45 into the back of her waistband and opened the door, planting herself solidly in the center of the doorway. Her brown eyes were stormy as she surveyed the man; both she and Mel noted, to their satisfaction, that the left side of Dobson's face still bore the marks of Janice's fist.
Dobson, dressed as impeccably as before, stepped onto the front porch. Kaitlyn crossed her arms in front of her and squared her shoulders, bracing herself, but the man made no attempt to get past her. Instead, he simply stood on the steps and addressed them. "Miss Pappas. Miss Velasquez." Mel nodded curtly, and Kaitlyn growled. Their faces were twin masks of challenge.
Forcing herself to sound civil, Mel asked, "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" She said the last word with a venom so completely foreign to her usual demeanor that Kaitlyn cringed.
"There is," Dobson answered. "You three can take the hint-"he smiled weirdly-"and stop all work on these Xena Scrolls of yours. All work on them."
Janice, alerted by Mel's cry, emerged from the basement about then, her white undershirt and khakis soiled from her plumbing work. She stood behind Kaitlyn, next to Mel, and glared with undisguised hostility at Dobson. "What the hell is going on here?"
"I believe our friend here is trying to serve us with a cease-and-desist order," Kaitlyn said through clenched teeth. She addressed the man standing on the porch. "Do I have that right, Dobson? What's the idea here?"
"Very simple," replied Dobson, his voice icy. "We want you to stop translating these Scrolls of yours."
"Yeah, yeah, you've said that twice already," Kaitlyn interrupted angrily. "You got anything else to say, or is that the only thing you can think of?"
There was disgust on Dobson's face as he looked at Kaitlyn and Janice, and something vaguely approaching pity when his gaze landed on Mel. "At the moment, it is our biggest concern. The information in those Scrolls could have an extremely large impact on this world. It could be dangerous. We don't want to see that come to pass."
Mel was incredulous. "You would stand in the way of the truth about history?"
Dobson ignored the question. "I warn you," he said, "don't underestimate me. The contents of those Scrolls will not be made public." With that, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Janice stormed about the study. "I'm not going to stand by and let some damn bastard who wants to control history tell me what to do!" she raged. "There's no way I'm going to let all of Dad's work go to waste!"
Mel held her hands up in a placating gesture. "Janice, none of us want to see that happen!" She tried without success to calm the archaeologist, who continued to pace furiously. "I have no intentions of stopping our work."
"Me neither." Kaitlyn looked up from her guitar. "Hell, if anything, he made me more determined. I have really adverse reactions to people telling me what to do." She tried not to think of how badly she wanted to finish the work on the Scrolls, and how badly she wanted them to accomplish the ends they had planned with regard to the Scrolls. In light of Rhonwyn's lifesong, the thoughts of what might happen worried the young linguist more than she felt she could afford.
"Well, we can't stay here." Janice shook her head. "It's costing us time, and the more he pesters us, the more nervous we're going to get, until we won't be able to do any work at all. I think we need to go somewhere that we can hide out and work in secret. Undisturbed."
"Hide?" Mel couldn't believe she was hearing this. Her lover had never been one to hide.
"This is more important, Mel," the blonde woman said firmly. "The Scrolls mean too much for me to let the work on them be endangered. I don't want to run away any more than you do, but for the sake of the Scrolls, and everything they could ever affect, we have to."
Mel considered this. "All right. So we find a safe place to hide. But where?"
They all fell silent for a moment, thinking. Then Kaitlyn played a few soft chords on her guitar and smiled. "I've got it. My family owns a place up in western Massachusetts, out in the Berkshire Hills. It's pretty secluded there. Relaxing, too."
"But the house . . ." worried Mel.
"Give me a day or so to call in some favors," Kaitlyn told her. "The house will be fine while we're gone." She jumped up, guitar in hand, and ran off to make a few calls.
They packed up a few personal belongings and the Scrolls and left in the jeep, leaving the estate in the hands of the grounds staff and a couple of Kaitlyn's old army buddies, who'd agreed to keep an eye on the place. The drive was pleasant enough, and fast, thanks to the combined efforts of Kaitlyn and Janice. They arrived in the Berkshires in record time.
Kaitlyn jumped out of the jeep and grinned. Compared to the Pappas estate, the Velasquez summer house was tiny, but nestled as it was in the New England forest, it was certainly peaceful and secluded.
"It's lovely here!" Mel had gone to Boston and the big cities of eastern New England before, but never to the more rural western half of the area, with all its small towns.
"Isn't it though?" Kaitlyn took a breath of the fresh air and walked around the jeep to begin unloading. The closer they'd gotten to the town of Housatonic, the more eager and relaxed she'd become, and now she was practically bouncing with childlike glee. "Catch, Janice!" The young linguist tossed the keys to the archaeologist, who fielded them deftly and set about unlocking the front door. "I spent all my summers here as a kid. I love Boston, and the whole feel of the big city, but there's just something about these woods that really makes me come alive. We have a little pond out back, and I'd go there for hours on end, with my guitar, or just to play in the water or sit and think. I still come here as often as I can; it seems to inspire a lot of my songwriting. Sometimes I think I know how Whitman and Thoreau and Emerson and all those writers felt." She hauled three suticases out of the back of the jeep and brought them into the house.
"Songwriting, huh?" Janice came back outside and took two bags from Mel, who went back to the jeep to get more.
"Oh yeah. There's a lot of folk singers making the rounds up here, you know. What with Williams and Holyoke and Smith and all these college towns in the area. That's how I got started. Maybe I'll take you down into the town tonight and we'll just hang out someplace and listen."
"That would be nice. Maybe they'll ask you to play." Mel smiled and handed Kaitlyn her guitar case. The linguist had refused to leave her instrument behind.
"We'll see."
They finished unloading the jeep, and Kaitlyn showed them to their room. All three of them, tired from the drive, spent the rest of the day resting, and after dinner, Kaitlyn took them into town, to the small café where she'd spent so many summer hours over the years.
Sure enough, there was a woman on the small corner stage singing when they arrived. They ordered cofee and settled in for the next couple of hours to relax. By the look on their friend's face, Mel and Janice could see just how important music was to Kaitlyn; her eyes were closed, and the guarded expression she usually wore was gone, washed away by the songs.
"Velasquez!" A man was making his way toward their table through the smoky air of the cafe. Kaitlyn jumped up and greeted him enthusiastically.
"Hey! How are you? And what brings you up to this little neck of the woods?" she asked, shaking his hand vigorously. She recognized his face, but for the life of her, couldn't remember his name. Then it came to her. "Pete, right? You still playing these little houses?"
The man rubbed his bearded chin. "Sometimes, yeah. But I've mostly moved on to bigger gigs now. I miss these small places, though. But you know what, that stuff you showed me helped a lot. Thanks."
Kaitlyn grinned. "Glad to hear it, Pete. Any time. We folkie types have to stick together, right? Isn't that half the idea?"
"It sure is," agreed Pete. "What have you been up to lately? Still in school?"
"You bet. Master's program now."
"Just as long as you haven't given up on your music." His eyes twinkled.
The linguist laughed. "Pete, when I die, they're going to have to pry my books out of one hand and my guitar out of the other."
Pete chuckled, then glanced at his watch. "Well, I've got to go. It was good seeing you again. Maybe next time I see you, you'll be playing at a festival, or maybe giving a lecture, eh?" He shook Kaitlyn's hand again, warmly. "Take care, Velasquez."
"Will do, Pete. You too."
They watched as he left. "Who was that guy, kid?" Janice asked, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke.
"Oh, a guy I met over in Great Barrington a couple of years ago. We played together a few times, me and him and his pal Woody, and I taught him a couple of guitar tunings. He's really good. I mean, really good. Getting into the big time." Kaitlyn took a gulp of her coffee. "Seeger, I think his last name is. Yeah, that's right. Seeger."
The woman on stage finished her set. "Anyone else want a shot at the stage now?" she asked, smiling, over the applause. When nobody took her up on the offer, Mel nudged Kaitlyn.
"Get up there!" she encouraged.
"Yeah, go on, kid, I want to see you in action." Janice indicated Kaitlyn's guitar case, which rested on the floor by their table. "Here's one!" she called, waving to the woman and pointing at Kaitlyn.
"Oh gods . . . well, all right." The linguist got up with mock reluctance and headed for the stage. She hadn't performed in a while, and after all, she did miss it. Bending down, she removed the guitar from its case and attached the leather strap, embroidered with its Celtic knot pattern, to the strap pegs. With a small smile to her friends, she stepped up onto the small platform.
Mel and Janice watched with pride and interest as Kaitlyn began to play; aside from a few fragments, muffled by the bedroom door, they had never seen this aspect of their friend before, never heard any of her original songs. They were curious to see if Rhonwyn's bardic talent was strongly manifested in her descendant.
It was, they decided. Kaitlyn's songs were simple, speaking of things like love and friendship and childhood memories, but she had a clear, evocative voice that infused the plain words with levels of meaning and emotion, connecting with her listeners in a way that felt personal. Five songs later, the patrons of the café were in an awed hush.
"That's all I've got for tonight," she told them apologetically. "Sorry about that; I'm pretty tired. But thanks for being such a great audience." She waved and went back to the table amid a round of quiet applause, bashfully accepting a few tips from people as she passed.
"That was fantastic, kid!" Janice told Kaitlyn, who was putting her guitar away. Folk music really wasn't the archaeologist's style-she found she couldn't get into it-but what she'd just heard had captivated her. "You ever going to stop surprising us with what you can do?"
The shaggy-haired girl smiled and lit up a cigarette. "I'll think about it."
They spent another hour or two talking, and ended up in agreement that the apocryphal Scroll had most likely been authentic; what Kaitlyn had translated of Rhonwyn's lifesong certainly seemed to confirm it. Kaitlyn decided not to tell her friends about the nagging fears that the lifesong had awakened in her. By the time they were ready to go home, those fears were more or less forgotten anyway, and all three women felt relaxed enough to go back to the house and resume work in earnest the next morning.
Chapter Nineteen
Kaitlyn sat atop a large rock behind the house with her notebook, a few books, and a scroll, hard at work translating in the warmth of the summer sun. The sounds of splashing water and laughter drifted over to her on the light breeze, from the nearby pond where Janice and Mel were going for a swim. With wistful sadness, the linguist watched Janice dive beneath the water and surface behind Mel, who caught onto the attempted sneak attack and merely turned to give the shorter woman a kiss. Look at them . . . they're just like a couple of kids together. They'd be the perfect storybook couple . . . if the storybooks had anything but straight couples in them.
"You're lucky as all hell, Melinda Pappas," she murmured softly. Kaitlyn was tired of being lonely; she hadn't been with anyone since Joni two years ago. It wasn't that she had any trouble meeting girls or getting dates, but somehow she found that she had no heart for the dating scene. Besides that, the lingering fear of yet another relationship getting shot to pieces was too strong, and kept her at bay.
Kaitlyn badly wanted someone to love, someone who would accept all the caring and devotion that was a part of her nature, hidden as it was behind her usual standoffishness. But her long history of relationships gone bad was certainly a discouraging factor. Living with Mel and Janice for the past month didn't make it any easier; she was jealous of the love they shared, as much as she tried to deny it.
"Get over yourself, Velasquez," she scolded. "You've got work to do." With what felt like a colossal effort, she got back to work on the scroll that lay in front of her.
* * *
"She's young. Poison will kill her if her powers aren't mature."
How could I believe what I was hearing? Killing was nothing foreign to Xena, that was for sure. She was a warrior with a dark past, after all. There was an intensity to those words, one that I had not heard since the time we spent under threat from the Horde. I felt I did not know her then, and I was beginning to feel that way again.
"Poison? Xena, she is my child!" I had tried many times before to talk her out of making a kill, but this was now personal. How could she say this to me? She had been at my side when Hope was born, witnessed every moment of my pain . . . and of my joy. Despite my daughter's origins, I loved her dearly, a fact Xena knew well.
And yet this was the second time she had tried to engineer Hope's death. The first had come shortly after her birth, and was the cause of much anger and turmoil between the warrior and myself . . . anger and turmoil that we had thought was behind us now. I lied to her then; I took advantage of her trust in me and told her that I would kill Hope myself. But the truth is that I set Hope adrift in a basket and prayed that any gods listening would protect her. I loved my daughter, and could not stand for her death-I refused to believe that her soul and existence were forever bought by evil.
I lied to Xena. A lie for a lie-I didn't know it at the time, but she had lied to me in Chin, letting me believe that she was not responsible for Ming T'ien's death. And yet she'd promised me that she would not kill him. So now I had lied to her in return, letting her believe that I had done as she had said. But I'd honestly believed that I was doing the right thing in letting Hope live.
But now where had that brought us? Callisto was free once again, Kaleipus was dead, and the children of the Amazon village were in grave danger. And here we were, Xena and I, having the same argument about Hope, but this time with my lie exposed.
"She is not a child!" Xena cried, her voice terrible in the intensity of its quiet fury. "She is a body. A vessel. An instrument for evil. That is all!"
We argued on, the future of my daughter's existence hanging in the balance. I firmly believed that Callisto was just using her, and that Hope was just as much in danger as the rest of the children. "That's why I sent her to Kaleipus's hut. So she would be safe from Callisto."
Xena's expression changed drastically at those words, and a blend of fear and pain which I had never before seen on my warrior's face replaced the look of fury. "You sent her to Kaleipus's hut?" she repeated in anguish, and the tone of her voice struck me with profound pain. I felt a chill of apprehension steal through my body, and realized that I could have just made a serious mistake. The feeling lingered even as Xena raced past me out of the hut; it drove me to follow her, and her concern for Solan was so great that she, the warrior who could anticipate the silent approach of a trained assassin, never realized I was close behind her.
I stood outside Kaleipus's hut in silence, listening to her tremulous voice. "Solan? Solan?" I could sense her growing hysteria, and finally unable to hold back any longer, stepped into the open doorway.
There Xena knelt, in the center of the hut, cradling Solan's limp form in her arms. Her son. The one good thing to come from her years as a warlord. "No," I whispered softly, clenching my fists at my sides. "No!"
Had Hope been responsible for this? Had she really? She was nowhere in sight. All logic told me that this was indeed her doing, but I struggled against that logic, still not wanting to believe it.
Xena turned her head to look at me, hatred and accusation radiating from her in cold waves. "Get out." Her words were a feral growl. Now was not a time to defy her, I knew, and I complied, leaving the hut and hiding just outside. I lurked there, waiting for her to come out, and trying to let the sound of her grief convince me of my fault in the matter . . . after all, I had sent Hope here. But my love for my daughter interfered again, and I simply could not convince myself, despite what I heard coming from inside the hut.
"It's all right, Solan, I'm here now . . . your mama's here, just like you always wanted . . ." When her tormented scream arose from the hut, I could stand it no longer, and fled.
I returned to my own hut, and to my surprise, Hope came back, frightened. She told me that Solan had already been dead when she'd arrived at Kaleipus's hut. That had to be it . . . of course it had to be Callisto! How could I have let myself believe-let Xena coerce me into believing-that Hope could have been responsible? Nevertheless, Solan was dead, and I knew that Xena would stop at nothing now until Hope was gone, so we made plans to leave.
Held tightly in my embrace, my daughter begged, "I don't want to end up dead like Solan! Please, can we go?"
I don't know if she felt my body tense at her words. She shouldn't have known what his name was . . . "How did you know his name was Solan?"
"You told me, remember?" she said, in that desperate way children have when they realize that they're about to be caught. "Now please, can we go?"
I held her tighter, more to keep her from seeing the look on my face than out of a desire to comfort her; in fact, I was beginning to feel the cold revulsion that one might feel when embracing a deadly snake. The awful truth of the situation had finally struck home for me, and, reeling from the shock, I was simply driving myself harder against the keen-edged dagger of that truth as I clutched Hope in my arms.
"Yes," I answered miserably, looking across the room at the empty poison vial that lay next to the waterskin on the table. I had no doubt in my mind now as to what I had to do, though I was still loath to do it, and I feared that it was too late to right my wrongs. The damage had already been done. "Yes . . . we'll go."
She was thirsty, and I gave her the waterskin I had prepared, my mind protesting against the cruel necessity of this new deception. The poison took her quickly, and I was grateful that her death was painless, and that she had no realization of what I had just done. Silently I covered her little body and knelt next to her in the grass.
Her death was on my hands now-I had knowingly, and willingly, plotted to carry it out. Her death. This was now the second time that I had killed. The first time, in Britannia, had been due to Xena's abandoning me to Khrafstar and his cult. It was more an accident than anything, perhaps, but Meridian's blood was on my hands nonetheless. And it was because of that experience that Hope had been conceived, that the village was in danger, that Xena's son was dead, and that I now had yet another death on my hands. The death of my own daughter. Waves of despair crashed in on me; this was a burden with which I felt I could not live. Facing up to Xena's wrath was one thing, but to have taken two lives when I believed so strongly against it . . .
I took the waterskin. There was still enough poison left in it for me. I raised it to my lips to drink, and found that I couldn't make myself drink from it. I don't know why, but some strange glimmer of . . . hope, ironic as it was . . . kept me from ending my own life. Perhaps I could learn something from this, after all, and keep others from doing what I had done. Besides, I decided that Xena would need me, and in the state she was in now, how could I trust her not to become a monster if I died?
A movement in the bushes caught my eye. Xena was standing there, glaring at me through hard-set eyes full of undisguised hatred. I met her gaze, and in that moment I began to feel the first twinges of the same feeling toward her. But I buried those feelings deep inside, trying to forget them. I was alarmed by the remembrance of what Rhonwyn had told me, that like speaks to like and strengthens it. Thinking back, though, I realize that keeping the hatred within me was a mistake. I made many mistakes in those days . . .
Xena turned away, leaving me with the covered litter that held Hope's body. I knelt there, my head bowed, allowing myself a few moments of grief. I mourned my daughter, the events leading to her birth, the tragedy that her survival had brought about, the destruction of my relationship with Xena . . . I mourned the death of everything I had known and held dear. Finally, when I had recovered myself enough, I stood, took hold of the litter, and set back to the village in the darkness.
We held the funerals for both Hope and Solan that night. It was Ephiny's suggestion; she hoped that our mutual grief would heal the enmity that was growing between us. Perhaps it should have, but bringing us together then doubled the magnitude of that grief, as it did the resentment between us that had been growing since Britannia. So much of that like emotion, and so strong-such as the nature of hate and resentment is-overwhelmed us both. Rhonwyn was right. Like energy does in fact speak to like.
Ephiny's voice echoed into the darkness in a keening, haunting song as we stood in the center of the village that night, two souls hurting seemingly beyond all human power to express, two hearts aching with losses so devastatingly alike that they repelled each other with ungodly force. Bathed in the flickering, sordid light of the fires leaping from twin funeral pyres, Xena and I stood, gazing into the flames, reaching so deeply into the cores of our own pains that we began to lose sight of each other.
Side by side we stood, so close together, and yet so vastly torn apart . . .
* * *
Kaitlyn whistled as she lay the scroll down. From then on, it was identical to the one Rift Scroll that had been written in Greek, the one Mel had first translated before her arrival. This tied it all together, answering many of the questions they'd had about the Rift so far. Many questions remained, though. They knew that Xena and Gabrielle had met Khrafstar in Greece; but it was still a mystery as to how Gabrielle had fallen in with him once they'd arrived in Britain. They knew that Xena and Gabrielle had gone off on their own to find Boadicea, and met up with Rhonwyn on the way; but they had no idea how the two had managed to find Khrafstar again. There were still more Scrolls left to translate, and Kaitlyn hoped they would find their answers there. Too much of the Rift made no sense; too many maddening gaps existed in what they knew of it.
Kaitlyn worried, too. Janice had never quite fully gotten over the fact that she was descended from Xena's young companion and not from the warrior herself. Try as she might, the archaeologist could never really stop resenting that, and often gave Gabrielle a bit less credit than Mel felt the bard deserved. Lately, too, they'd all been speculating on how much of history could repeat itself, and the linguist couldn't shake the thought that it might happen again, here, with the unfolding story of the Rift. Janice's skepticism about her ancestor might come into play again, and the possibility was troubling.
"Oh, son of a bitch," Kaitlyn mumbled, watching Mel and Janice getting out of the pond. A sick feeling was starting deep in the pit of her stomach, just like it had on the night that Dobson had fired on them on their way home from the University. Troubled brown eyes studied her two friends. "When they read this scroll, the shit's gonna hit the fan."
Continued in Part 6
The Athenaeum's Scroll Archive